Life Interrupted
by MizJoely
Summary: Sherlolly AU. After a drunken night with a boy whose name she never got, uni student Molly Hooper finds herself pregnant. Ten years later, she finds herself face to face with the father of her child. Will they manage to reconnect or will the discovery of his child drive Sherlock Holmes away? Read and find out! (Hint, if you've read any of my stuff you know the answer!)
1. Busy Making Other Plans

By the time 22-year-old Molly Eleanora Hooper realized she was pregnant, it was too late to do anything about it. Far too late for a Morning After pill, too late for an abortion, too late for anything except keep it or give it up. She was nearly five months along and her father had been in the ground for three of them before she finally realized her missed periods weren't due to stress, that her lack of appetite and tiredness weren't entirely depression-related.

If she'd known the name of her baby's father, she'd have gotten in touch with him and let him know. If she knew anything about him other than that he had lovely dark curls and eyes that reminded her of the ocean – an ever-changing mixture of blue and green with tiny amber flecks – and cheekbones to die for, that he was studying chemistry at one of the universities in London and smoked more than just cigarettes, she might have had something more to go on. But she'd known hardly anyone at the party, had been standing alone at the foot of the stairs with her third vodka tonic in a red plastic cup, and he'd come up behind her and deduced pretty much everything about her, from the reason she was standing apart from the crowd to her recent break up with her last – well, technically her only – long-term boyfriend, and she'd turned and seen him and her only thought had been, Fuck it, Molly – go for it.

So she had. She'd leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his, ignoring the lingering scent of marijuana – who was she to judge? – for once in her life not fretting over consequences. His mouth had opened beneath hers, his tongue had eagerly lashed against hers, and at some point she'd completely lost track of her red plastic cup as they began groping one another right there on the stairs.

Things could have gone so differently, she reflected as she stared numbly down at the pregnancy test with its bright blue plus sign. Someone had come clattering down the stairs, muttering, "Get a room, Jesus you two!" before squeezing by them. She could have taken that moment to break away from his arms, murmured an excuse and made her escape. Done the right thing, the smart thing, but the lazy smile on his face as he tilted his head and flicked his eyes upward in a definite question had done something to her, temporarily caused her to abandon common sense and doing the right thing and caused her to nod her response before slipping her hand into his and allowing him to tug her up the stairs to an unoccupied bedroom.

So here she was five months later, a medical student about to enter the pathology program, paying for that lapse in judgment and suddenly pregnant. Well, not suddenly, nearly five months along, but it still took her by surprise. Even seeing the results of the pregnancy test (a very definite positive) still couldn't entirely cement the reality in her mind. How could this have happened? She was on the pill, she wasn't promiscuous; Christ, it had only been once! And he'd worn a condom, hadn't he? The details were hazy, but she was pretty sure she'd insisted on it and that he'd complied without a murmur. Yes, she remembered now; she'd dug it out of her handbag, a leftover from her relationship with Tom Higgins…and proceeded from there to have the best sex she'd ever had in her life, drunk or sober, bar none.

As soon it was over, however, she'd panicked, grabbed her clothes, gabbled something about having to go, and bolted as soon as she was half-way decent, knickers stuffed into her handbag, shoes in one hand, stockings in the other. She'd met no one she knew, although a few of the blokes gave her some knowing smirks and a few of the girls gave her some disapproving scowls (jealous cows, had been her thought at the time, even in her panic). She'd made her way back to her flat and immediately passed out.

The next morning, before she could begin to process what she'd done and who she'd done it with (how could she have had sex with a guy who was obviously high, no matter how gorgeous – and not even get his name!), her mobile had rung. It had been her mother calling with the grim news about her dad's prognosis. It was the beginning of the summer break and the end of Molly's life as she'd known it.

She didn't wait to call her mother; still sitting on the cold tile floor of her dorm bathroom, she laid down the pregnancy test and dug her mobile out of her pocket and pressed the speed dial. As soon as her Mum answered, Molly blurted out the devastating news. "Mum, I'm so sorry. I'm pregnant."

There was a moment's silence on the other end before her mother responded. "Are you sure, love?"

Molly glanced at the discarded test, fighting an urge to burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh yeah, pretty sure. Actually, very sure."

Karen Hooper sighed softly, and Molly squeezed her eyes shut, picturing her mother's disappointment and bracing herself for her next words. "Well, dear, have you talked to Tom about it…oh, sorry!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself. "You broke up with him ages ago, I'm sorry, darling, I forgot…wait, you haven't said anything about a new boyfriend? Who's the father?"

"It's a boy I met at a party. Right before…right before you called to tell me about Dad."

Another long silence as her mother processed Molly's words. "Molly, that was…that was five months ago! Sweetheart, why did you wait so long to tell me? Oh, love..."

Molly broke in to explain how she'd missed the signs, how she'd dismissed them as emotional symptoms rather than what they actually were. "So anyway, Mum, I guess I'll be coming home soon." Her throat started to close up and the tears she'd been fighting fell as she struggled to get the next words out. "I—I'm so sorry, Mum, I can't believe I disappointed you and Dad like this! I'll…I'll find a job and try to f-find a place on my own to live as soon as I…"

"Molly Eleanora Hooper," her mother broke into her unhappy babbling, her voice as sharp as Molly had ever heard it. "What are you going on about? You're talking as if you're going to give up your education!"

"But Mum, what else can I do?" Molly sniffed, rubbing her hand across her nose. She shifted her phone to her other hand and reached up to blindly grope for the box of tissues sat on the back of the toilet. "In four months I'll have a baby to take care of, I can't finish my programme and take care of a baby and get a job and…"

Karen once again cut through her daughter's welling panic. "We'll figure it out. Come home for the week, darling, never mind your classes for now." Her mother sounded quite firm, not at all emotional or angry, certainly nowhere near as upset as Molly had expected her to sound. "Come home, charge the train ticket to my credit card – you have the numbers, right?" Molly nodded, then squeaked out a yes as her mother continued speaking. "Come home, Molly. We'll sit down together and we'll make up a plan. You get in touch with this boy so he knows what's…"

Oh God. The worst part, she still hadn't told her mother the worst part. Molly felt positively sick as she whispered, "I don't even know his name, Mum, or which university he goes to. I'm sorry, please don't hate me, I…"

"Darling, I love you," her mother interjected softly. "Come home. Right now. We'll work things out. Your father wouldn't want you working yourself up over this, and neither do I. Just…just come home," she said, and Molly found herself agreeing without further demur.

Her mother had always been a rock, always available for her two daughters and her husband, always putting their needs first but always so cheerful about it that it was obvious that was what made her happiest. It didn't alleviate Molly's raging guilt one small bit, but she did find comfort in the fact that her mother hadn't screamed at her or thrown blame or done any of the other horrible but justified things she could have said or done in the course of such a conversation.

No, Karen Hooper had been exactly what Molly needed: a loving mother reaching out to comfort her child.

Molly just hoped that, no matter what else the future might bring, she would be as good a mother to her own child as hers was to her.


	2. Expect The Unexpected

"William Henry Hooper! What are you doing here?"

Molly Hooper, youngest pathologist on staff at St. Bartholomew's Hospital (newest as well, having only worked there for six months, fresh out of medical school), stood in the morgue and glared at her son. Who looked back at her calmly, as if there was nothing he should be upset or ashamed of, showing up at his mother's place of employment when he should be in school. "Well? Explain yourself, young man!" she said sternly, folding her arms across her chest as she studied him.

He was tall for his age, her William – named after his grandfather and usually called Wills, unless (like today) he was in trouble. He had the Hooper eyes – brown and round – but his other features were purely those of his father, from the unruly dark curls to the sharp cheekbones to the aristocratic nose and long length of neck with its prominent 'freckle mole' as her sister had dubbed it when Wills was brought home from hospital. "Mum, you said he was coming in today, Sherlock Holmes." Her son's eyes shone with excitement as he stepped away from the autopsy table he'd been leaning against – which was thankfully clean and unoccupied – and grinned at her. "I want to meet him. Just five minutes, that's all, then I'll go back to school." He scowled, then tried another grin, this one hopeful. "Unless you think I should just go straight home instead?"

She shook her head and scowled right back at him, not taken in for one second by his lightning quick changes of mood and expression. "No. You are going to march right around and get back on the Tube – I assume you took the Tube? – and go back to school." She fished her mobile out of her pocket. "I'll ring the headmistress right now and explain that you're on your way, and if you're very lucky, I might even make it sound as if it's my fault so you won't spend too long in detention this time."

Her son was precociously intelligent, a real handful, and had been since day one. He'd arrived six weeks early and been habitually late for almost everything ever since then. Molly felt as if she'd been chasing after him her entire life instead of just for the past ten years, and she knew her mother and sister – both of whom had helped raise him while Molly finished her education – felt the same.

She also knew that, like her, they wouldn't trade him for anything in the world. Although today she was annoyed enough to wonder what it would be like to ship him off to boarding school until he was old enough to go to uni.

He dashed to her side and tugged at her wrist, looking up at her – and not that far up! – beseechingly. "Please, Mum, please! His website is wicked, it's so amazing, you know it, I've told you and showed you, you just have to let me meet him! Please! I promise I won't get into trouble at school for the rest of the term, I'll finish all my homework and my chores and I won't even show up Louisa at music practice if you just let me stay and meet him! Please?"

If any other child had made such outrageous sounding promises, Molly would have taken them with a grain of salt – or ten. But her son took things like promises and vows very seriously; if he said he would stay out of trouble and do his homework and chores and even behave himself when he and his cousin were at their violin lessons, he meant it. He'd do it, too, no matter how tempted he might be to 'forget' or let it slip his mind.

He could see the hesitation in her eyes and clearly took it to mean he'd won. "Thanks, Mum! This'll be brilliant, I can't wait!" He practically danced away from her side and plopped onto one of the lab stools, spinning it round to face her again as a grin the size of Buckingham Palace threatened to split his face in two. "I won't be a pain, I promise; just five minutes and I'll go back to school."

Molly sighed, but she wasn't quite ready to fully capitulate. "You also have to promise me you won't ever do anything like this again, William," she said sternly. "I want your word, right now, or no deal."

She waited while he stuck his lower lip out in a pout, reminding him forcefully of his father in that instant, a man she hadn't seen in over ten years. His image had faded a bit over time, but he'd left such a vivid impression that even now she could summon up the exact color of his eyes, the expression on his face as he orgasmed…

She hoped none of her wandering thoughts showed on her face (although she could feel the flush on her cheeks and hoped her son would chalk it up to her being in a temper) as she watched her Wills, the product of that union, give her a solemn nod. "I promise, Mum." Then his grin returned and he jumped off the stool, racing up to give her an enthusiastic hug. "Thanks!"

She returned the hug, then slipped her mobile back into her lab coat's pocket, mentally reminding herself to call the headmistress and try to smooth things over just as soon as Wills met his idol. In the meantime, she had another call to make, one that was going to be just as difficult, she imagined, as the call to Mrs. Witherspoon. "I just have to call my boss, Wills, and explain things. He's bringing Mr. Holmes round in a few minutes, so you just stay on that stool…" She pointed to the one he'd just vacated... "and wait for me to…"

The sound of the door opening behind her caused Molly to spin around, and she bit her lip nervously as the very man she was about to call bustled into the room. He stopped short at the sight of her son, his eyes gone wide in an expression of (to Molly's mind) highly exaggerated surprise. "Who is…Molly? Is that…your son?"

Molly nodded; Mike hadn't met William yet, of course, but she'd talked about him endlessly. She hadn't been so rude as to bombard Dr. Stamford with pictures, since she hated it when people did that to her, but the almost comical expression of shock on his face was really too much; was he deliberately exaggerating his reactions for some reason? Was this his way of expressing his disapproval? Well, nothing to it but to wade in with explanations. "I'm sorry, Mike, but he just showed up. He wants to meet Mr. Holmes, and I hope you don't mind, but since he's already here…"

Mike started and glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, yes, Sherlock," he said vaguely, then shook his head and stared at William. "Why didn't you tell me? My goodness, the resemblance, it's quite uncanny…"

Before Molly could ask Mike what the heck he was talking about, the door behind him opened, and a tall, thin figure clad in a dramatic black Belstaff, wearing a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, swept into the room. "Ah, Stamford, here you are. Sorry, I was stopped by that annoying…"

Molly could feel the blood rushing from her face, just as she could feel the sudden pounding of her heart in her chest as she took in the unexpected sight of the man who had come to a stop directly in front of her. Those eyes, those cheekbones, the hair…it was him, the boy from uni. He was Sherlock Holmes, whose picture she'd never seen, who had no photos of himself posted on his website, the consulting detective and deductive genius her son idolized…He was William's father.

She was dizzy, or was it the room that was suddenly swaying around her? She opened her mouth to say something – what, she wasn't sure – then closed it as her vision darkened and her knees gave out beneath her and for the first time in her life, Molly Hooper collapsed in a dead faint.


	3. Come Talk To Me

Molly woke up in a hospital cot. She sat up, then promptly lay back down as her head spun dizzily.

"Take it easy, Molly, you've had a bit of a shock." Mike Stamford, her boss, leaned over her, peering down at her with an expression of warm concern on his round face. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he absentmindedly pushed them back up with one finger as he peered into her eyes. "Pupils are dilating normally, your breathing is regular, heartbeat's a bit elevated but that's to be expected, and your color looks a bit better, but I'd like you to stay in bed for a bit until we're sure you're all right." He helped her into a sitting position, then handed her a glass of water. She drank thirstily from it before handing it back to him, annoyed that her hands were shaking. And ice cold; symptoms of shock, of course, she recognized them, but the memory of what the shock actually was currently eluded her.

After she'd leaned back against the pillow, Mike's words finally registered, and she looked at him with a puzzled expression. "We?" she asked, then allowed her gaze to wander around the room. It took her a moment to recognize it; the small break room sandwiched between the morgue and the ladies' loo. "Did I pass out?" she asked, feeling more than a bit fuzzy in the memory department.

Mike nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid you did. Perfectly understandable under the circumstances…"

"Where's Wills?" she interrupted him as memory came flooding back, bringing with it a touch of panic. "Is he all right?"

Mike smiled and nodded, but pressed gently on her shoulder with one hand until she subsided against the pillows. "He's fine, he's with Sherlock…uh, his father, I suppose I should say."

Molly closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. So she hadn't been hallucinating after all. "Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective my son's been idolizing ever since he discovered his website last year. That's his name. After all these years," she muttered, half to herself, but of course Mike was right there, listening to every word. Her eyes opened and she gave him a weak smile. "Well, now you know my sordid little secret. I had a one-night stand in uni with a boy whose name I didn't even know and ended up pregnant with no way to get in touch with him. I hope you don't hold my lack of morals against me now; I promise, I didn't do anything else even remotely as stupid when I was a student. My test grades are all my own…"

"Of course, I never even considered such a thing," Mike replied soothingly, and Molly realized she'd been babbling. But she was still disoriented, still shocked that a man she never thought she'd see again would come strolling back into her life so casually. "You said Wills is with Sherlock…are they…what are they doing?"

"Talking," Mike replied simply. "After Sherlock swooped in and stopped you from hitting your head on the floor – moves like a bloody cobra striking, that man," he interrupted himself with a good-natured grumble, "even though I was closer, he still got to you before me." He grinned to show no hard feelings, that he was rather laughing at himself than resenting being shown up, and Molly grinned back, although there was almost no wattage to her smile. Not yet. God, Sherlock Holmes, her son's father, was talking to Wills. But what, she wondered in sudden panic, was he saying? Surely he wouldn't be so unkind as to disparage her to her son's face…but no, Mike would never have left the two of them alone if Sherlock was that kind of man, would he? "Don't worry, Molly," he said gently, as if reading her confused and conflicting emotions in every flicker of her eyelids. "They seem to be hitting it off quite well. Shall I call them in, or at least William? Do you feel up to it?"

She nodded and sat up, refusing to lie down a second longer, but obediently remaining on the cot. "Of course, and Mike, I'm so sorry…I never meant to cause so much drama, I promise!"

He laughed and patted her on the shoulder in an avuncular manner. "Not to worry, Molly; I'm used to drama when Sherlock is around! Well," he added as he smile dimmed a bit, "perhaps nothing quite so…domestic in nature. Oh, and I've called in Sanjay to cover your shift for the rest of the day." He shushed her attempts at a protest. "You've had a shock, Molly. You need some time to recover. And I've already approved your leave for the rest of the week. To give you time to sort things out. Come back on Monday if you feel you're ready, or let me know if you need more time."

"If you're trying to clinch the nomination for boss of the year, Mike, it's in the bag," Molly called out as he headed for the door. He turned to wink at her in a conspiratorial manner, and she smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you," she said, meaning it and wishing she had the words to fully express how grateful she was to him for being so understanding.

She lay back and contemplated the ceiling as she tried to rearrange her life to fit the new facts that had been so ruthlessly dumped on her today. Fact One: she now knew the identity of William's father. Fact Two: He just happened to be a man her son already worshiped. Fact Three: He knew Molly's boss, Mike Stamford, well enough for Mike to personally escort him to meet Molly. Fact Four: He was just as devastatingly handsome as he'd been when she first met him ten year previous. Same catlike blue-green eyes, same gorgeous cheekbones, same incredible jawline and unruly dark curls – slightly shorter now than they'd been that night – same intensity…

"Fuck," she said aloud. Apparently her libido had decided to restart itself with his reappearance in her life. Just what she needed.

"Isn't that what brought us to this moment in the first place?"

Molly started at the unexpected sound of his voice – Sherlock's voice – coming from the vicinity of the door. She'd (almost, not really) forgotten just how deep and shiver-inducing it was. She sat up and watched as he entered the room, his expression somewhere between humorous and cautious, and she supposed her own was probably a bit like a deer in the headlights, but honestly, what did he expect from her? Making jokes like that, after ten years apart and having their reunion be so bizarrely momentous that it felt like a punch line to some cosmic joke mere mortals like them weren't privy to?

"Um, yeah, well, I…I was on the pill," she blurted out, feeling her cheeks heating although she wasn't entirely sure why. She told herself she wasn't embarrassed, for God's sake; the embarrassing moment, if it could be called that, had happened over ten years ago!

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I saw the packet sticking out of your handbag," he added as he came further into the room. "That night. When you were pulling out the condom. Doubly protected, yet still…" He trailed off as if unsure what to say, and Molly wordlessly indicated the chair by her bed, a silent invitation to continue the fumbling, uncomfortable conversation that was sure to follow if he stayed.

He hesitated only briefly before closing the door behind him and taking the offered seat. "Your son…our…William is with Mike," he said, shrugging out of his coat and allowing it to fold itself over the back of the chair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave Molly a searching look, no doubt deducing her as her son had more than once described from Sherlock's – his father's – blog. She remained silent, patiently waiting for him to finish, or say something.

Just when she thought he'd fallen into a trance, he blinked and leaned back. "You've never married," he said, his voice curiously neutral, his expression giving nothing away. "Nor ever brought home a serious boyfriend since…for as long as William can remember," he amended. Molly raised an eyebrow; apparently Sherlock and her son – their son, dammit, why was this so hard? – had had quite the conversation already.

"And we live in our own flat but spend most of our free weekends at my mum's house in Chelsea or at my sister and her husband's place in Belgravia," Molly said, willingly giving up the information, knowing that if he was half the deductive genius he was credited with being, he would find everything out anyway. If Wills didn't tell it all to him first, that is. "How is he? Wills, I mean," she added as Sherlock gave a confused squint (coupled with a rather adorable nose wrinkle…focus, Molly!). "How did he…was he worried about me?" She moved to swing her legs over the side of the bed, dislodging the blanket that covered her. Sherlock reached out and grabbed it before it hit the floor. "I should go…" Molly made a vague gesturing motion toward the door, but Sherlock, intuiting her intentions, shook his head.

"He wants us to talk first," he said, lips curling in what looked (at least, to Molly's inexperienced eyes) like an affectionate grin. "He said to tell you that we should take as long as we like, he'll be fine until after."

Molly let out an exasperated huff and leaned back against her pillows. "Of course he would, he knows the longer this takes the less chance there'll be that he'll have to go back to school today."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, giving her an odd look. "Under the circumstances, I imagine him returning to school would accomplish very little."

"Oh, yeah, right," Molly was forced to agree. If she'd been thinking straight, she never even would have suggested such a thing. Still, she was his mum and the need to speak to him, right now, to know that he was okay, overcame her. Murmuring a soft "excuse me for a moment" she pulled her mobile out of her lab coat pocket and hit Wills' speed dial.

He answered after only one ring, his voice an excited gabble. "Mum! You're all right, I know you are cause Dr. Stamford said so. Sher—uh, he told me it was okay to call him Sherlock, I know I should call him Mr. Holmes and be respectful, but he's my dad and he says it's too soon to call him that and he's totally right and isn't this wicked, Mum? Isn't it the most amazing thing ever? He talks to me like I'm not just a kid, Mum, and he's so…anyway," Wills said, taking a breath but not really pausing long enough for his mother to interject a single word, "I just want you two to talk, okay? Please? Then come and get me after? I promise I'll behave, you know I will, and Dr. Stamford said I could wait in his office and I have my phone and my school stuff and…"

This time Molly didn't wait for him to take a breath, she simply cut him off, knowing that at this level of excitement (and nervousness; she could hear the underlying nervousness in her son's voice, nervousness at finally meeting the father he'd never known and never thought he would know), he was unlikely to stop until forced to take another breath. "Wills! It's all right, yes, as long as you…look," she said, taking a deep breath of her own and watching Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He'd sat back and crossed his legs, his hands clasped over his raised knee and looking as cool and composed as she knew she looked flustered and nervous. "Yes, you can wait in Dr. Stamford's office, and make sure you tell him I said thank you. Your fa…uh, Sherlock and I are…we're talking, I don't know how long we'll be, but you and I will talk after, if that's really what you want."

She waited, giving him the opportunity to change his mind, knowing as she did that her often stubborn son rarely looked back once he'd reached a decision. "No, Mum, it's okay," he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. "I'll see you later. Whenever. I have money for lunch and everything," he added, addressing a concern she'd neglected in her mental discombobulation. Some mother she was, forgetting her only child's needs just because his biological father turned up out of the blue – and was actually one of her son's heroes!

An old saying about not meeting your heroes because they were sure to disappoint drifted through her mind like a warning, but she ignored it for now. In the short term Sherlock had lived up to every expectation her son had ever had – no, exceeded them. Who knew what the long term would bring?

That, she resolved as she told William she loved him and hung up the phone, was one of the things she was determined to find out. If not during this conversation, than during whatever conversations the future might bring.


	4. Getting to Know You

Molly looked over at Sherlock again, giving him her full attention. But before she could ask her first question – how did he feel about being so unexpectedly presented with a ten-year-old son he'd never known about – he spoke first. "He's very bright."

She smiled proudly. "Yeah, I know. I should probably have him in more advanced classes – he's especially good at chemistry and maths, did he tell you? – but I want him to stay with kids his own age."

"Does he…get on well with them? The other kids, I mean?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit wistful. Molly wondered if his own childhood had been difficult or lonely.

"Oh, yes, he's one of the most popular kids in his class," she said. "Sometimes he's a bit too popular, if you know what I mean; spends more time chatting up his mates than he should, gets a bit, um, high-spirited, but he's a good boy and doesn't get into too much trouble."

Apparently Wills hadn't held back on anything when he and Sherlock chatted…he'd told his father (that was going to be a difficult term to get used to saying!) about cutting class to meet him today, about the time he'd managed to replace the dead frogs they were supposed to dissect with live ones that he'd meticulously sedated as a prank on his science teacher, and about quite a lot of other things he'd done that Molly had been rather hoping to forget.

Sherlock surprised her when he said, "You named him William. May I ask why?"

There was something in his voice, the slightest catch, which caught Molly's attention. She responded to that hesitation instinctively, wanting to reassure him that it was all right, that she wasn't going to hide anything from him, that she wanted him to know about his – their – son. "You're his father, Sherlock," she said. "You can ask me anything you like about him! He's named after my father and my Mum's dad – William Henry Hooper. Why?" She made another attempt at humor. "Is William not one of your favorite names or something?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose you could say that," he replied, but before she could do more than bristle at his words (what was wrong with 'William', it was a perfectly lovely name!), he lowered his voice and added, "It's just that…it's my name, too. My first name. My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Oh." Molly stared at him blankly. Somewhere in the cosmos the Fates were giggling their ancient, bony arses off right now. She'd not known the name of the boy she'd had sex with, yet had ended up naming their son after him anyway. The giggle started off small, then morphed into a full-bellied guffaw as she bent over, laughing harder than she had in years.

After a moment she realized Sherlock was laughing right along with her, his deeper chuckles sounding as sort of counterpoint to her own higher pitched giggles. "W-well, that cinches it," she finally managed to gasp out. "No one will believe me when I say I didn't know you were his father before today!"

"I think my brother might accuse you of having dastardly reasons for 'hiding' Wills from me all these years," Sherlock replied between continuing bursts of laughter.

That last comment served to sober Molly immediately, reminding her of all the things she didn't know about this man. "You have a brother, then," she said. "Just the one?"

"One remaining brother," he replied, sobering as well. "Older. Mycroft." He made a face, as if the name – or the brother – was an annoyance. "Our younger brother, Sherrinford, died a few years back." The closed-off expression on his face warned Molly that that was not something he wished to go into, and she showed her respect for his privacy with a simple nod of understanding.

"I have a sister, her name's Grace, she's two years younger than me, married and has a daughter, Louisa, she's two years younger than Wills and they get along, oh, about half the time." She smiled fondly at the thought of her eight-year-old niece. "Mostly when they're not competing over who plays the violin best."

Sherlock gave her an odd look. "He plays the violin?" Molly nodded. Sherlock flexed his fingers, looking down as he said, "So do I."

The coincidences were piling up, the cosmic joke turning into a Shaggy Dog story the longer Molly and Sherlock spoke. "Oh," she said, beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed, then: "Does your brother play as well?"

Sherlock pulled a face that reminded her so strongly of Wills when he found something distasteful that she nearly gasped. "No," was all he said, causing Molly to wonder if he and his elder brother didn't get on well.

She told him about her mum, about her father's illness and why it had taken her so long to discover her pregnancy. Sherlock listened attentively, nodding now and again, and willingly spoke of the rest of his family when she fell silent. "Both parents living, house in Sussex, they're out of the country at the moment but they'll be thrilled…that is, I hope you don't mind if they…" He stumbled to a stop and just looked at her as if uncertain how to proceed.

Molly knew exactly how he felt. "Of course I don't mind. Wills is a very outgoing little boy – well, not so little any more, I guess," she added wistfully. "Anyway, he was already so excited to meet you before he knew…before either of us knew." She tried a smile and knew it was much closer to a grimace but plowed on. "Now that he knows you're his father, you have no idea how over the moon he is about it."

"Oh, I might have a small inkling," he replied with a smirk, and suddenly Molly was taken back ten years, seeing the traces of boy he'd been in that smile. All he needed was a messier head of curls and a bit of stubble and a few less lines around his eyes…and all she could see, suddenly, was the two of them naked, in a stranger's bed, moving against one another with a fierce urgency, and felt the blush climbing up her cheeks as she tried to remember what it was she'd been saying before her mind wandered down such an inappropriate mental byway.

"Um, yes, I suppose he was pretty enthusiastic when he met you," she agreed, toying with the end of her braid, a nervous habit from her childhood that she'd never outgrown. "Anyway, all I meant to say was that I'm sure he'll be excited to meet your family…his family…his other family…oh, bollocks!" she exclaimed as she, found herself stumbling over her words the way Sherlock had only moments earlier. She gave him a helpless look. "This is just so…I wasn't expecting any of this when I got up this morning, you know?"

His answering smile was wry, just a curl of the lips. "Yes, I rather think I do," he said.

"Thank you." Sherlock looked confused at Molly's hastily spoken words, so she elaborated: "For not…running away screaming when presented with a ten-year-old miniature version of yourself. For not accusing me of anything nefarious, for not…blasting me for not trying harder to find you."

"How, exactly, would you have gone about it?" Sherlock asked drily. "Taken out an advert, asking for the chap who shagged you at a party while he was high and you were extremely drunk, to come forward and accept responsibility for the child you were now expecting?" He shook his head at the absurdity of the idea, which Molly couldn't disagree with. "We didn't even have first names or initials to go on, Molly; I'm a deductive genius and I can't even say I'd have been able to find you had I known I needed to do so at the time."

There was no modesty in his voice, but there was no bragging either; he said the words 'deductive genius' in the same matter-of-fact way she might describe herself as a human being. "The only thing I told you about myself was that I was studying chemistry, and as I recall, that was only in the context of making a rather bad joke about the joint I was in the process of lighting up – and to answer your next question, no I don't do drugs anymore, haven't for years – while you ran about in a panic redressing yourself after we'd had sex."

She felt a flash of relief that he willingly volunteered the information that he no longer did drugs, a question she would have felt uncomfortable asking him but would have done so anyway since it was clear he wanted to have some kind of relationship with Wills – but colored a bit at the bland way he spoke of their previous relationship, brief as it had been. But honestly, what did she expect? It had been meaningless sex, a way for her to blow off steam and for him to possibly do the same. She hadn't exactly asked him his reasons at the time. "Why did we?" she found herself asking, curious to hear his take on it. "Have sex, I mean." She felt her blush spreading down her cheeks but tried to ignore it; it was silly, she was a grown woman who had a child, for God's sakes! A child with this very man.

He waved away her question with an annoyed frown. "Why do you think? You were attractive and drunk and I was high and you kissed me on impulse – something I could tell you'd never done before – and that made you even more attractive. No simpering attempts at seduction, no coyness; you wanted something, and you went for it. The fact that the something you wanted happened to be me was very satisfying to my ego; I'm a man, after all, and when an attractive, unattached woman throws herself at me – at least, when I was at uni and still bothered with things like that – I willingly catch her. Caught her." He pulled a face. "Sorry, I seem to have run into some tense changing problems there. But you understand what I mean." He cocked his head to one side, examining her closely. "You're not hurt by my saying that," he pronounced after a moment, sounding faintly surprised. "Why not? I've been told I'm far too blunt, and I know that I'm rubbish at expressing myself when it comes to sentiment, and any number of people have assured me that discussing intimacy with a sexual partner – or even a former sexual partner – can often stir up unexpected emotions."

Molly was pleased to have surprised him by her reaction – or rather, her lack of reaction – to his spot-on analysis of their shared time together. "Why should I be hurt, or upset? It was the truth. I'd much rather you were honest with me than try to spare my feelings by offering me some rubbish lie about how special our time together was. I have to admit, I was surprised you even remembered me," she confessed, lowering her eyes to where her hands were fidgeting with one another in her lap. She consciously forced them to still, to rest together, interlacing her fingers tightly before returning her gaze to meet his. "I'm not exactly, well, memorable." She pulled a face. "Sorry! That sounded like I was trying to get you to reassure me or something. Forget I said it."

His face was entirely unreadable for a long moment; just as she was beginning to wonder if he was having some sort of delayed shock reaction, he blinked and nodded. "Forgotten. Now. I know you have questions for me; ask away, and I promise to be completely honest. And if for some reason I can't, I promise to tell you so."

They spent the next hour quizzing one another on the paths their lives had taken since that fateful party. She found out that Sherlock lived in a flat on Baker Street, only about an half-hour's tube ride from Molly and Wills' home, which he shared with a flatmate – a former army doctor who'd served in Afghanistan and had been invalided out, who was also a friend of Mike Stamford's – and lived what seemed to be a fascinating and somewhat alarming life. How a son would fit into that life was something neither of them brought up.

He deduced a great deal about Molly without her needing to tell him things, impressing her quite a bit. He knew she and Wills had a cat – fur on their clothing, simple when you looked for it, but who bothered? He also told her quite confidently that he knew she was working long hours in order to save up enough money to buy a house, that she hoped one day to move to the suburbs more for her son's sake than for he own, and that she had no intention of asking for any kind of maintenance from him – but that he planned to make arrangements for just that as soon as possible.

Molly tried to protest, but he steamrolled right over her, insisting that it was the least he could do. "But you haven't even asked for a paternity test!"

He gave her a look (one she would grow very used to in the near future), a look that said, plain as day, 'Don't be stupid.' His next words confirmed her interpretation of that look as he said, "Honestly, Molly, even Stamford saw the resemblance. But if you insist, I'll accompany you back to the lab so you can take a DNA sample. I suppose I'd better do it anyway," he added, rolling his eyes in a melodramatic fashion. "Or Mycroft will be after me day and night until I do."

Oh, there was definitely some animosity there; Molly was curious, but kept her questions to herself. She and Sherlock had been talking for over an hour, and that was more than long enough to keep Wills waiting – and to keep Mike, she thought guiltily, busy with temporary babysitting duties. Right now she needed to get her son home, call her mother and sister and have a family meeting to discuss this unexpected development. Thank God Sherlock didn't seem completely aghast at the idea of having fathered a child ten years ago; however, for all Molly knew his seeming acceptance of the situation could simply be due to shock, just as she knew her own reaction was likely to set in once she was home. The easy camaraderie and rapport she thought they shared could be as insubstantial as soap bubbles, here now, gone an instant later.

Besides, it wasn't her relationship with Sherlock that was important, it was Sherlock's relationship – whatever it might turn out to be – with Wills that mattered. "So, um, should we exchange mobile numbers? Do you want to know where we live, should we be talking about schedules and visits? It's fine if you don't," she added in a rush as she fiddled with her mobile. "It can wait, I mean, you just found out about him today and I don't expect you to make any kind of a decision right this min…"

"Molly." Sherlock sounded slightly annoyed, and she gulped and closed her mouth as she gave him an inquiring look. "Do you always ramble like this, or is it just when you're nervous?"

Instead of upsetting her, his terse question caused her laugh again. "Oh, a bit of both. I tend to go on more when I'm nervous, but yeah, this is me, how I am most of the time. Except, well, worse than usual today. But I think I can be forgiven under the circumstances."

He had the grace to look abashed at her implied rebuke, mumbling something about everyone reacting to stress in different ways as he pulled out his mobile. She read out her number, he gave her his, and Sherlock helped her to her feet, keeping a guiding hand at the small of her back as they left the break room.

Wills was in the path lab, peering interestedly into a microscope while Mike lectured him on the properties of the sample he was examining. They looked up when Sherlock and Molly entered the room. Molly smiled brightly and thanked Mike for looking after Wills. She quickly explained what she and Sherlock needed to do, blushing lightly at the prospect of asking for yet another favor – although she'd hardly asked for the first ones Mike had granted, she still felt she was taking advantage of his good nature. She tried to apologize, he brushed it off, and Wills looked positively ecstatic at the thought of being subjected to a DNA test. "That's wicked, that's the coolest thing ever!" he gushed, bouncing around the lab like an overexcited terrier while Molly set everything up.

Fifteen minutes later the swabs had been taken, the tests sent for analysis, mobile numbers and addresses had been exchanged, and Molly was finally ready to take her son home. She was a bit taken aback when Wills turned to Sherlock and said, "Is it all right if I tell people? Or do you want to wait until the tests come back?" His eyes positively lit up as he added, "Or is too dangerous for people to know I'm your son? Do you have a nemesis or an arch-enemy or anything like that?"

Sherlock laughed, a delighted sound, reached out and ruffled Wills' dark curls, so like his own, as he replied, "No, it's fine, tell whoever you like. As long as it's all right with your mother, that is," he added, giving Molly a grin.

She couldn't help responding to that smile, feeling a sudden rush of desire as he caught and held her gaze. God, they'd had sex once, just once, so why was it suddenly all she could think about? "Well, let's hold off until we've talked to your Gran and Aunt Grace," she said lightly. "We'll deal with telling anyone else after that, right?"

Wills nodded, looking a bit disappointed (he'd probably planned to blog about it or at least send out a mass email to his friends), but his expression swiftly returned to one of utter bliss as Sherlock told him he could call him, anytime, day or night – or email, if he so desired. He promised to answer any questions Wills might have – with Molly interjecting that maybe he could pass those questions by her first, to which he and Wills both responded with equal scowls but both reluctantly agreed to.

Then it was over, the first meeting between father and son, which had gone far smoother than Molly could ever imagine, if she'd ever bothered to imagine such a thing. She'd expected to live the rest of her life without ever seeing Wills' father again, and now had to readjust her world view to include Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and deductive genius, as part of her son's life.

Dinner, she reflected, was going to be very, very interesting tonight.


	5. Telling John

John had finished his shift at the clinic and was reading the paper when Sherlock returned to the flat that evening. "So how was it?" he asked, not bothering to put down the paper. In spite of the fact that he could find far more up-to-date information on the internet, he still preferred to read the daily match scores via what Sherlock scornfully called 'archaic methods'.

"How was what?" Sherlock asked.

John huffed in annoyance. "Your first day driving the Barts pathology staff spare."

"Oh, that. Splendid," Sherlock replied, shrugging out of his coat and carefully hanging it up. He unwound his scarf as he added offhandedly, "Stamford introduced me around, I had an irritating run-in with Dr. Berringer – you remember, the one who refused to believe he'd made a mistake in the Islington case – and, oh yes, I met my son for the first time."

He smirked to himself as he heard the distinctive sound of a newspaper suddenly hitting the floor.

"Say that again," John demanded as he stared over at Sherlock, who had plopped into his own chair and lifted up his violin and bow from their case.

"I met my son today," he repeated obligingly, his smirk widening at the shocked expression on his flatmate's face. "Although his mother and I had no knowledge of one another's names at the time of our, hmm, encounter, ten years ago, his name is William."

"And why, exactly, is that significant…wait, no, never mind," John said, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair, bemusement and a touch of curiosity – more than a touch, actually – on his expressive features. "Let's start over, yeah? So you're telling me you have a son?"

"Apparently. His name is William Henry Hooper, he's ten years old and somewhat of a fan of mine; he actually enjoys my website enough to skip school and take the Tube to his mother's place of employment – St. Barts of course – in order to meet me, not knowing that I..." His voice caught and it took him a moment to continue. "He seems bright and looks so much like me it's rather frightening."

He went on to explain the situation as it currently stood, then waited quietly for John's reaction.

It wasn't long in coming, and his first words were so predictable Sherlock could have recited them along with him if he'd so desired. "What do you plan to do about it, then? Are you going to be part of his life now? Is that even what his mother wants, now that she's met you again?" He seemed to have the most difficulty believing that his flatmate had actually had a one-night stand, and Sherlock decided now was not the time to delve into his extensive sexual history, or his friend's head might explode. Why people persisted in believing him to be devoid of experience was a mystery to him; just because he didn't indulge now and hadn't for many years, didn't mean he'd never tried sex at all!

Then again, he certainly had no interest in sharing with John that simply holding Molly in his arms when she'd fainted had elicited some bizarre form of muscle memory; he'd felt a flash of heat through his body and an image of her naked form beneath his had arisen so clearly that their single night together might have just happened, rather than ten years ago.

She'd aged quite well, Molly Hooper, specialist registrar, in spite of the difficulties she'd faced in not only raising a child on her own immediately following the death of her father (although with what seemed to be a very supportive family to assist her) but in continuing and completing her education at the same time. During that same period he'd earned his Master's in Chemistry, battled and triumphed over drug use, and forged a unique and exciting career for himself, but all those accomplishments paled in comparison to the quiet fortitude he read so clearly in her expressive features. She'd done an admirable job with raising her – their – son so far, and the only reason Sherlock hesitated to become a larger part of the boy's life than they'd already tentatively agreed to was because, frankly, he didn't want to be the reason for all that good work to come undone.

He explained that to John, who shook his head and folded his arms across his chest as he said, "What makes you think you'll ruin his life just by being a part of it, Sherlock? It's not as if you plan to ask them to move in with you, or contest Dr. Hooper for custody!"

"They have perfectly happy lives at the moment, John; I would never do anything so foolish as attempt to wrest a child from its mother simply because I happen to have contributed half of his DNA!" Sherlock replied with a huff. "As for moving them in here…" He paused, actually considering the idea, startled to find that the idea of cohabiting with the two of them wasn't entirely an unpleasant one, no matter how recent the acquaintance might be.

"And you're actually…all right with this," John said slowly, for once accurately deducing his friend's thoughts. "Not just all right, but…happy."

Sherlock was about to deny that last part, but found he couldn't, because it was true. The thought of being anyone's father was indeed terrifying, but at the same time, he couldn't deny the thrill that had gone through him at the sight of what amounted to a half-sized, pre-adolescent version of himself standing in front of him.

It was almost equal to the thrill he'd gotten at the sight of Molly Hooper. The girl he'd slept with on impulse, and yet hadn't ever deleted from his Mind Palace the way he had every other person with whom he'd had such a fleeting sexual encounter. The girl whose every detail was inexplicably seared into his memory in spite of the fact that he'd only been with her once and had been doing a bit more than simply smoking pot that night.

The girl – no, the woman – who was once again a part of his life, in the most unexpected way possible.

"I am…not unhappy about the turn of events," Sherlock finally replied to John's statement. "I suppose I have you to thank for that, actually."

John looked surprised. "Me? Why?"

"Because if you hadn't been in my life, become my friend…I don't think I would have been ready to welcome the idea of becoming closer to anyone else, certainly not a child." He chuckled and dropped into his chair, realizing he'd been standing the entire time. "Especially since you've pointed out on more than one occasion that I can be a bit of a child myself."

John snorted inelegantly. "More than a bit," he declared, but grinned as he said it. The grin faded as he shook his head, still clearly coming to terms with the idea of Sherlock having a son. "You didn't happen to take any snaps while you were getting acquainted, did you?"

Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tossed it to John, who caught it easily. "As a matter of fact, I did. None of Molly," he added, correctly deducing John's next question. "She was too busy fainting with shock for a family portrait, but you'll meet her soon enough."

"Invited her round for dinner, did you?" John asked absently as he scrolled through the pictures of Sherlock and William.

Sherlock's brow scrunched. "No. Should I have?"

John just shook his head, still closely examining the pictures. "I guess it might be too soon, but it sounds like the two of you really hit it off, and it also sounds," he added, glancing up with a smirk, "as if you'd like to get better acquainted with his mum as well."

Sherlock scowled; since when had John Watson become so good at deducing him? Ah well, at least he'd been able to shock the other man when he'd first come home. "If I wish to be part of Wills' life," he said stiffly, "then of course I shall have to get to know his mother better as well."

"I would really like to make a joke about how you've already gotten to 'know' her about as well as man can know a woman, but I'm betting you're about as familiar with the term 'in the Biblical sense' as you are with the make-up of our solar system," John said with a chuckle. Sherlock gave him his haughtiest stare; of course he was familiar with the term, he simply didn't appreciate that sort of humor. "But yeah, maybe inviting them to dinner would be a good next step, let them see where you live…"

"Let them meet my exceedingly nosy flatmate?" Sherlock cut in, rather acerbically.

John, however, was not at all abashed. "Exactly," he agreed. Then, as something occurred to him: "Have you told Mycroft yet?"

"Not yet, I thought I'd wait until the results of the paternity test come back – Molly insisted," he added, seeing John about to become outraged that Sherlock hadn't simply accepted the truth based on shared history and how closely he and his son resembled one another. "And it's just as well, as I'm sure Mycroft would also insist. Our parents will be thrilled, but as I told Molly, they're currently in America…"

"Your parents?" John interrupted, looking surprised. "Your parents are still…well, of course they are, you just said so, sorry." He gave his head a quick shake. "But you never talk about them so I just assumed you and Mycroft were the only members of the Holmes clan still living."

"Oh, no there are loads of Holmes' cousins and some elderly great-aunts and uncles," Sherlock said, shrugging to indicate both their quantity and their inconsequence. "I suppose you'll want to meet my parents eventually as well, so the next time they're in London I'll be sure to invite them round."

John grinned, obviously anticipating this meeting very strongly. "Fantastic!" he replied. "And in the meantime, invite Molly and William for dinner, yeah? Mrs. Hudson will be pleased as punch to find out you've got a son, you know she will!"

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh and indicated that John should return his mobile. "As a matter of fact, I've been invited to dine with the Hoopers on Tuesday. If that goes well, then maybe - maybe! - I'll bring Molly and Wills round to meet you. But not until my family meets them first or I'll never hear the end of it."

"Fair enough," John conceded. "Can't wait to hear how Mycroft feels about being an uncle!"

"His opinion on the matter means less than nothing to me," Sherlock huffed. "Either way I'll be sure to tell Mrs. Hudson about my most recent changes in family status. And yes, I'll invite Molly and Wills for dinner. Unless a case comes up, of course," he added. "Nothing lower than a nine, and if Lestrade shows up on our doorstep…"

"He'll be just as tickled as Mrs. H to meet your son and his mother," John concluded for him. He chuckled and picked up his paper from the floor. "Wow. Sherlock Holmes, a dad." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day. 'Married to your work'…" he stopped and guffawed, much to Sherlock's irritation. "Well, since St. Barts is part of your work now, and Molly is a pathologist there, I suppose it's only logical that she'd be the mother of your son." Still chuckling at his own (overinflated) humor, he went back to scanning the football scores, and Sherlock busied himself sending a text to Molly, issuing the suggested dinner invitation. Then he supposed resigned himself to showing Mrs. Hudson the photos of William and filling her in on the situation.

He sighed. His life had just become infinitely more complicated, and yet, as John had so accurately pointed out, he still felt rather happy about it.


	6. No Reason To Be Nervous, Right?

"Maybe we should eat out somewhere. A nice restaurant. Or at your sister's house, their dining room is much nicer than – "

"Mum! Stop fretting!" Molly said in fond exasperation as her mother fluttered around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and cabinets without really glancing inside any of them.

They were in the comfortable house where Molly and Grace had grown up – and Wills, too, once he'd come along to enliven and exasperate the three of them. The dining room held eight, ten if everyone was very friendly. More than enough room for Molly, Wills, Karen, Grace and her husband and Louisa, and Sherlock.

Sherlock had called to invite she and Wills to dinner at his flat, but she'd wanted him to meet her parents before being introduced to his flatmate and the landlady he spoke of with a mixture of fondness and impatience that told her how familial that relationship really was. He'd agreed, and soon he would be here, in the place where his son had been raised until Wills and Molly had moved into their own London flat just a year earlier. He would see everything and no doubt make some of those blindingly fast deductions of his, and Molly could understand why her mother would be nervous. The house was large and comfortable, and had been cleaned to within an inch of its proverbial life, but the furniture hadn't been new since Molly's father had been alive, and the knickknacks were all rather cheap and gaudy. Sherlock had come from a posh background and wore expensive clothes; what would he think of it all?

It didn't matter, she reminded herself. He wasn't here to pass judgement on her mother's house, he was here to meet his son's family. And if he did pass judgement...well then. That would tell them exactly what kind of person he was, and it was better to get that sort of unpleasantness out of the way rather than be shocked by it sometime down the road. Sometime after Wills had already become too attached for them to distance themselves from his father again.

Molly knew it was just her own panic trying to make itself known, these second thoughts she was having, and concerns about back-up plans and 'just in case'. She didn't want her son hurt, and letting his father into his life was opening up just such a possibility. Then again, that ship had already sailed; was, in fact, so far out of port that not even a tiny dot on the horizon could be seen of it. Wills was dazzled by the fact that his father was one of his heroes, and already seemed to think the sun rose and set on the man's rather nicely built shoulders.

"Oh, stop it!" she exclaimed to herself and went back to laying the table. She'd just admonished her mother for fretting, and here she was doing it too. Worse, she'd once again found herself daydreaming about the night Wills had been conceived, and imagining – fantasizing – about how she and Sherlock might once again connect as more than simply parents.

No, that was another ship that had well and truly sailed, she told herself firmly as she placed the linen napkins and good china that had once belonged to her grandmother in place. And even if there was the possibility of the two of them, er, getting to know one another again, it had only been four days since that second meeting! Nowhere near enough time for her to be thinking such ridiculous thoughts.

Instead, she thought about how her mother and sister had reacted when Molly had hesitantly told them the news; not wanting Wills to be the first one to bend their ears in his excitement, she'd rung her mother up after Sherlock had left the hospital. Telling her over the phone wasn't the best way to do it, but it was definitely better than Wills bursting into the house and shouting the news at the top of his lungs when they arrived for the weekly family dinner. Which, as luck would have it, just happened to be scheduled for tonight.

Her mother had gone very, very quiet when Molly had explained the situation to her, not interjecting so much as a single gasp or question until her daughter stopped talking in order to ask, "Mum? Are you all right? Are you still there?"

"Yes, luv, I'm still here," Karen Hooper had replied, sounding a bit faint. "I'm sitting, just like you told me to, but frankly, darling, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get up again. It's just such a shock…oh, and listen to me!" she'd exclaimed. "Going on about what a shock it is to me, when it must have been an even greater one for you! Are you all right? And Wills? What's he like?" The dam had broken and the torrent of questions continued until Molly could interject her intention to answer them all at dinner, and asked her mother to take Grace aside and tell her when she and her husband and daughter arrived.

That had been a rather lively dinner, to put it mildly, and Molly was certain this one would be…well. Either strained and awkward or loud and accusatory – Grace had been very vocal in her disapproval of Sherlock, having read about him in the papers a few times in the past. Her husband Mark had known the whole sordid story, since Grace, much as Molly loved her, couldn't keep a secret to save her life and never even tried once she was married. Mark had blessedly told Molly he looked forward to meeting Sherlock, which had earned him a face-splitting grin from his nephew. Louisa had been enthralled, telling Wills over and over again it was "just like a fairy tale!" and even though he'd scoffed, Molly could tell he was pleased at his cousin's reaction by the faint hint of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

At the end of the night, everyone had come around to the idea of it being a good thing that Wills had finally met his dad, even Grace. But who knew how those opinions would hold in the face of reality?

A reality that was nearly upon them. The sound of the front door opening caught Molly's attention, and she heard Louisa calling for her grandmother while Wills clattered down the stairs to greet them. As the familiar voices filled the hall, Molly found herself wiping away a sudden tear of happiness; how had she gotten so lucky, what had she ever done to deserve so much love and joy in her life? Yes, there had been hard times and sorrow, but overall she had very little to complain about. She had a wonderful mother and loving sister and fantastic brother-in-law and adorable niece and a brilliant, amazing son – and, perhaps, she and Sherlock might have something more as well?

She silently scolded herself for once again drifting into daydreams, and went to join the rest of the family in the kitchen as they waited for Sherlock to arrive.

**oOo**

He wasn't nervous. He'd told John he wasn't nervous when the other man asked, and he'd reiterated that belief – truth! – when Mycroft had snidely asked him the same thing.

Yes, Mycroft had found out, of course he had, and shown up at Sherlock's flat the next morning, shortly after John left for his shift at the clinic. So shortly afterwards that Sherlock knew his brother had timed his visit precisely. He'd recognized his footsteps coming up the stairs and called out irritably to him to hurry up and get whatever it was he was here for over with – and that if it was a case, then the answer was 'no'.

Mycroft had said nothing until he entered the flat, taking a seat on the sofa, settling his ever-present brolly across his lap, and pursing his lips as he looked around before finally meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Well, at least he's old enough that you shan't have to worry about baby-proofing this death trap."

Sherlock had refrained from rolling his eyes, but only barely; of course his brother would already know, probably had known within minutes of Sherlock finding out. Or sooner? He'd narrowed his eyes and frowned as he studied his brother. "When?" he'd asked, barking out the single word like the accusation it was meant to be.

Mycroft had raised his hands in a surrendering position, a slight smirk on his lips. "Not until after you did, brother dear, you have my word on it. I haven't been quietly keeping tabs on your offspring behind your back all this time. Mummy would have my head if I'd ever dared keep a grandchild out of her life even if it was for altruistic reasons."

Sherlock had snorted, but relaxed a bit, relieved beyond measure that Mycroft hadn't, indeed, kept such knowledge from him. His elder brother could be cloyingly overprotective at times, but it was good to know he recognized the concept of boundaries even if he rarely allowed them to stand in his way.

They'd discussed Sherlock's relationship with the boy as it currently stood, and Mycroft had issued the expected, tedious warnings about sentiment, but the words had sounded weak even coming from him, a sign that he might actually be interested in acting as an uncle to Wills. Well, even if he wasn't interested in forming a relationship with his nephew, Mummy and Dad would be sure to do their best to change his mind. They'd left their sons to live their lives as they saw fit, rarely intruding as they enjoyed their retirement years, but in this one area Sherlock knew Mummy would be impossible to control. She'd wanted grandchildren almost from the moment puberty had hit each of her sons, and had been frustrated in that ambition by Mycroft's utter disdain for humanity in general, and Sherlock's similar feelings. Yes, they'd each dutifully brought home romantic partners during their uni years, but none of Mycroft's boyfriends or Sherlock's girlfriends had lasted more than six months, until each brother had separately concluded that such relationships simply weren't worth the bother.

But then DI Lestrade had come into Sherlock's life, offering him cases as viable substitutes for the drugs that had been the only thing to still Sherlock's ever-buzzing brain. Then Mrs. Hudson, his landlady-not-your-housekeeper, who'd effectively become his London mum after uni. And after them, John Watson, the first person Sherlock had called a friend in over a decade, had come along, putting more cracks in the defensive walls around his heart. Cracks that were now more like crevasses that easily allowed William Hooper entry, although Sherlock suspected he'd have made his way there even without the existence of the other people in his life.

Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, William Henry Hooper had already invaded not only Sherlock's heart – the heart he'd denied having for so many, lonely years – but had also taken up residence within his father's mind palace, slipping into place as easily and comfortably as if they'd known one another for years rather than less than a week.

William, and his mother. Sherlock had been startled to find that Molly had also made her way into his mind palace, and he still wasn't entirely sure why or how it had happened. Yes, she was the mother of his son, a woman with whom Sherlock had once been intimate, but surely that was no reason for her to occupy so much of his thoughts?

His arrival at Karen Hooper's small, tidy brickfront home brought him back to the present. He noted the presence of a second car in the drive and deduced that the sister – Grace, aged twenty-seven, a secretary at a large bank, one daughter aged eight and the husband, Mark, a professor of literature at some boring university or other – had already arrived. So much for a few private moments of conversation with either Wills or Molly, then. He let out a small huff of annoyance and parked his borrowed vehicle next to the curb.

He wasn't nervous. There was no reason for him to be nervous; he didn't care about other people's opinions, never had, so why should he start now?

Because these people are important to you son, and you want to make a good impression, his own mind snapped back at him. Don't be an idiot. Of course you're nervous. Now go in there and make a good impression.

He smiled wryly and exited the car, then headed up the front path at a brisk pace. No point in putting off the inevitable.

Before he could knock the door was pulled open, and he saw Wills' eager, smiling face before him. "Hey!" the youngster said, pulling the door wider and stepping aside. "Come in, everyone's here and they all want to meet you!"

Mustering up a smile for his son, Sherlock nodded and squared his shoulders.

Time to face the Hoopers.


	7. Dinner With The Hoopers

"Is it going to be dangerous for our Wills, you being in his life?"

"Grace!" Molly hissed, mortified, but Sherlock seemed utterly unfazed by her sister's rudeness as he responded to her blunt question.

"He'll be in no more danger with me as a father as he would be if I were a policeman, a firefighter or in the military," he replied calmly. "The only 'nemesis' I've ever laid claim to is my older brother Mycroft, and that is strictly in jest."

Molly wondered about the truth of that statement, remembering uneasily how she'd sensed a strain in their relationship when Sherlock had described his elder brother, but she could certainly understand sibling rivalry. Sometimes – like now, for instance – Grace drove her absolutely spare.

Dinner was less than halfway done and already her younger sister had demonstrated exactly how ill-suited her given name was to her personality by virtually attacking Sherlock about his career as a consulting detective. On the other hand, Molly could understand her unease; she had reservations of her own, although she'd mostly set them aside until she better understood Sherlock's life. To hear him describe it so calmly as being equivalent to the life of others who put themselves in harm's way actually helped. And once she met his family, as he was now meeting hers, she hoped to have any lingering concerns utterly quelled.

If, of course, she wasn't sent to prison for murdering her younger sister first.

"Sherlock works with the police, and he has a medical doctor for an assistant, so I don't think it's necessary to give him so much difficulty about his career, Grace," Karen interjected with a warning look at her younger daughter. Grace, who's mouth had opened as if to ask another loaded question, sullenly subsided into her seat, taking a forkful of roast but glowering at Sherlock suspiciously even as her husband asked him how he'd come to work with the Met in the first place.

That led to an entertaining series of stories that included Sherlock's first meeting with DI Lestrade, a man who sounded utterly fascinating to Molly. But then, she suspected anyone Sherlock talked about would sound utterly fascinating to her; she found she could listen to his voice no matter what he was talking about.

She caught herself briefly sinking into a bit of a daydream where he was whispering some rather filthy things to her in that rich, velvety voice, but was jolted out of it when she heard Wills asking if he could ever go along on a case with his father.

"Um, perhaps we'll leave that sort of thing for when you're a bit older," she told her son, who gave her the same glower he'd learned from Aunt Grace. She returned the look with the same quelling expression she and Grace had both mastered from years of watching their mother use it on them. "When you're a bit older, William," she repeated, stressing the use of his full name so he'd understand how not-kidding she was.

By the dinner was over it was clear that not only was Wills enthralled with his newly-discovered father, but his cousin Louisa was as well. Grace, in fact, was the only one who still seemed visibly uncertain about him, but over coffee and Karen's lemon bars, she thawed out a bit. Especially when Sherlock demonstrated some of his deductive skills on the two children – but not, Molly noted, on any of the adults. She wondered if it was out of deference to her or her son, but either way she was relieved that he appeared to be on his best behavior. Not that she had anything to measure by, but she'd read some of his blogs, which were fascinating, and then some of the more lurid case blogs posted by his friend John Watson. And in those more informal postings, the picture was painted of a man who didn't normally give a fig about anyone's opinion of him.

It would be interesting to see how long it would take the 'real' Sherlock Holmes to make an appearance.

**oOo**

"My parents would like you and Wills to come for dinner next Friday, if it's convenient."

Molly had walked Sherlock out to his car after he'd said his good-byes to everyone else; he'd seen and admired Wills' old bedroom, where he still slept on nights when Molly had to work an overnight shift, solemnly promised to show both children his preferred limbering up exercises on the violin – and committed to putting on a violin trio at some undisclosed time in the future. When he'd reached out as if to shake Wills' hand, however, Molly had seen the decision in her son's eyes right before he launched himself at his father, throwing his arms around his waist and squeezing.

Sherlock had looked stunned, but had quickly moved to return the embrace when Wills looked up at him with a brilliant smile on his face.

That was when Molly had decided it was time to give both father and son a few moments to collect themselves, and offered to walk Sherlock to his car while Wills and Louisa were set to their usual task of washing up whatever dishes their grandmother hadn't already cleaned. And although Sherlock had remained on his best behavior the entire time, Molly couldn't help worrying that he'd let her relatives know what he really felt about them.

"Oh, um, dinner, yes, that sounds lovely!" Molly said in response to Sherlock's statement. "I know Wills is looking forward to meeting everyone."

"Yes, and the same is certainly true of the reverse," Sherlock said with a brief smile. The smile turned into something of a grimace as he muttered, "Well, mostly true." At Molly's uncertain glance, he explained, "My brother Mycroft can be a bit anti-social at times. Well, so can I," he added with a shrug, "but I pride myself on the fact that I've gotten a bit better at it over the years. He prides himself on not feeling it necessary outside diplomatic circles. Certainly not at family gatherings."

That, Molly presumed, was something in the nature of a warning for her to expect a less than warm welcome from Mycroft Holmes; she bristled a bit, but on Wills' behalf rather than her own. Therefore she felt compelled to give out a warning of her own: "He can be as rude to me as he likes, Sherlock, but if he says one thing to hurt our son's feelings…"

"You can be assured that not only will he find himself facing your wrath, but my own and, more importantly, that of my parents," Sherlock replied, with a glint in his eyes that told Molly he was rather looking forward to the idea.

"I'm sorry about Grace," Molly said, not quite changing the subject but certainly adjusting it a bit; she was already nervous about meeting Sherlock's family and didn't want to think about it until she'd at least gotten this first meeting with her own family behind them. "She can be a bit…"

"Blunt? Honest?"

Molly stifled a small giggle at Sherlock's suggestions. "I was going to say 'rude', actually," she confessed. "She calls it 'speaking her mind' but Mum and I both think she just likes stirring up drama."

"Ah, no wonder I like her," Sherlock replied. Molly hoped he meant it; he sounded sincere but it was hard to tell without being able to see his expression.

"I think she likes you too," Molly said warmly, deciding to take his words at face value. "And I know everyone else does, especially my mum. And she's definitely the only one you needed to worry about."

"Hmm, so I needed to worry, did I?"

He sounded teasing and Molly gave another little giggle as she shrugged. "Of course; you don't know them, they don't know anything about you except what Wills and I told them, it's only natural to be nervous."

"I wasn't," he replied swiftly, so swiftly that Molly's inner voice cried 'liar!' although she kept her thoughts to herself. She was certainly nervous at the prospect of meeting Sherlock's family, even if she doubted she'd have much interaction with them after the initial getting-to-know-one-another stage; after all, she wasn't the one becoming part of their family, only Wills. And she firmly believed they would love him as soon as they met him, although she felt a stab of quickly-quashed jealousy at the thought that, to them, she'd be nothing more than a means to an end.

Trying to avoid falling into a ridiculous bout of self-pity, Molly mumbled something about getting back to the house and turned to go, but stopped her with a hand on her wrist as she turned back toward the house. Molly froze at that touch and he swiftly withdrew his hand with a slight cough. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," she replied, shaking her head and tucking her trembling hands into her pockets. "I, uh, just didn't want to keep you. Make you late or anything." She was glad the darkness would hide the sudden rush of color in her cheeks; she'd felt a flush of heat pour over her at his touch, just the way she had the first time he'd touched her, all those years ago. Well, technically she'd done the touching then, but when their lips had met that night…she felt that same tingle, that same sense of reckless anticipation. Her hands weren't simply in her pockets to keep Sherlock from seeing how his touch had affected her, but to keep herself from giving in to the temptation to throw her arms around his neck and snog him senseless.

"I've no further plans for the evening. You're not keeping me from anything." Was Sherlock as inclined to linger as she was? And if he was, then why?

Molly thought about asking him, just straight out asking him, when the front door opened, spilling light into the yard. "Molly? Is everything all right?"

"Just fine, Mum!" she called back, knowing that Grace must have prodded their mother into intervening. All the adults probably wanted their chance to dissect the evening in detail, even Mark; he was almost as bad a gossip as her mum. With an apologetic murmur, Molly said good-bye and trudged back to the house, resisting the urge to watch him drive away, instead bracing herself for the deluge of uncensored commentary she was undoubtedly about to be met with.


	8. Dinner with the Holmeses Pt 1

"Mycroft, dear, do promise to be on your best behavior."

In spite of the affectionate tone of her voice, there was a glint of steel in Violet Holmes' blue-green eyes that promised mayhem if her eldest born did anything she would consider not acting on his best behavior tonight.

Sherlock appreciated his mother's efforts on Wills and Molly's behalf, but he doubted that anything she did or said would keep Mycroft for letting his opinions of the two be known, either subtly or overtly. Then again, the same was generally true of himself, but this time there was too much at stake for Mycroft to be allowed to act his usual snotty self. "Yes, Mykey," he said, deliberately using his brother's hated childhood nickname – well, it wasn't as hated as 'Fatty' but Sherlock didn't feel like crossing that particular line tonight. "Do behave. If I could restrain myself from making deductions about Molly's family for an entire dinner, I think you might be able to manage the same." His tone implied that he doubted any such thing, and he hoped Mycroft would take it as a challenge rather than the blatant attempt at manipulation it actually was.

"He will if he knows what's good for him," their mother said firmly, ushering Sherlock into a tight hug while she continued to admonish Mycroft with her eyes. She patted her youngest son on the shoulders before pulling back and smiling up at him. "Oh, Sherlock, you know your father and I will love Molly and Wills, just from what you've told us about them!"

"Your potential affection for Miss Hooper is beside the point," Mycroft put in with a sniff as he rustled the newspaper he was ostensibly reading while seated at the comfortably crowded kitchen table. "She and Sherlock aren't dating, and what they had whilst in university was hardly the stuff of romance."

"Mycroft David Holmes!" Violet scolded as she released Sherlock and moved to stand over her eldest son, hands on her hips and an open glare on her face. "That is exactly the sort of nonsense I won't tolerate at dinner tonight, you hear me? Whether Molly and Sherlock enter into any sort of relationship outside of co-parenting or not is none of your concern! She's still the mother of my only grandchild, and I won't have you treating her like a nonentity!"

Sherlock smirked at Mycroft's annoyed expression, pleased that his mother was reacting exactly as he'd predicted she would – and as he'd counted on her doing. He wanted Molly to feel just as welcome as Wills, especially as he had no intention of keeping the lady in question at arm's length or using her as nothing more than a medium of contact with his son. As Mycroft had so snottily pointed out, their initial interaction was hardly romantic, but the more time he spent with Molly, the more interested he was in getting to know her better. Wills was still the most important part of their interactions, of course, but the potential for a closer relationship with his mother held a great deal of appeal to the consulting detective – although he refused to examine his motivations, instead opting to do what so many others did in their lives and, for once, let things unfold as they would.

He certainly wasn't going to dwell on his activities following his return to Baker Street after dinner with Molly's family – the ones that took place in the privacy of his bedroom after he had to endure a virtual interrogation by John Watson as to how the evening had gone. "You're sure you didn't go into one of your usual…things you do and piss them all off?"

"No, John, I was a perfect gentleman in spite of severe provocation on Molly's sister's part," he'd responded, then proceeded to give as dry and factual a recounting of the night's events as he could – excluding the contents of the private conversation he and Molly had shared at the end.

And John was to remain blissfully unaware of the fact that after he retired to his bedroom, Sherlock masturbated (for the first time in five years) to memories of that single night he and Molly had spent together – along with some very vivid fantasies as to how they might build upon those activities in future.

It was ridiculous and he knew it; even though he and Molly had reconnected in so unexpected a manner and come to know something about one another's lives since their singular night together, they were hardly in a position to begin dating, let alone any more…intimate activities. And in spite of the fact that she seemed to be interested in forming a more personal connection with him – as interested as he was in doing the same with her, or else he'd completely lost his deductive skills! – he still knew he had to do as John would no doubt advise him, were he to ask his friend for such advice, and take things slowly.

Dinner with her family, getting to know them and letting them get to know him, had been a first step. Dinner with his would be the next. After that, who knew? He would have to let Molly take the lead, in spite of his natural inclination to simply plough forward and do what he wanted. His experiences with John had certainly taught him the value of forming human attachments close enough to be called friendship, to make him realize what he'd been missing all those lonely years.

"Anticipating a pleasant evening with the newest member of the family, Sherlock, or possibly revisiting your old relationship with his mother?"

Sherlock didn't bother glaring at Mycroft, who was clearly in full-snark mode now. He'd snuck outside for a quick smoke, so of course his brother just had to follow after him. They were grown men; their mother had certainly scolded them enough about acting their ages and getting past their childish snits, but neither one could seem to let go entirely of old resentments, or get over bad habits.

Instead of responding, Sherlock silently handed his brother the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. Mycroft took both, lit up, and let out a silent stream of smoke before speaking again. "You do realize the utter disaster it would be if you tried to convince this woman that you were capable of maintaining a romantic relationship of any sort, don't you?"

Sherlock snorted and took a drag off his own cigarette. "I never said that was my intention, Mycroft," he replied. "I find it difficult enough to remain civil with people I've known all my life, let alone someone I know very little about and have only recently come to know in anything other than a carnal way."

Mycroft didn't look convinced, and Sherlock could hardly blame him, since the words were more an automatic, knee-jerk response than what he actually felt. "But if it was…would that be so bad?" he found himself asking in spite of himself.

Instead of barking out the expected 'of course it would, Sherlock, don't be stupid' response he was expecting, Mycroft took a long drag off his cigarette and gazed off into the distance. "It would be if you were doing it only because you thought that was what was expected of you," Mycroft finally said. "But I can see your affection for your son is very real, so who's to say your affection for his mother might not be as well?"

Sherlock nearly choked on his inhale at hearing what amounted to pure sentiment from his brother's lips. Mycroft waited with a supercilious smile on his lips for his younger brother to recover. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" Sherlock finally gasped out, staring at Mycroft disbelievingly.

"Say anything you like, but I'd advise you to say it a bit later." Mycroft nodded, his gaze on the road. Sherlock turned automatically to see what he was looking at, and saw Molly's small car just turning onto the drive. Wills' arm was out the passenger window, waving wildly, and he waved back, a smile curving his lips as he heard Mycroft moving away. "I'll leave the joyful reunion to the three of you for now. You can make the introductions to all of us at once."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, distracted by the sight of Molly and Wills spilling out of the small car. Wills came running up to greet him, catching him round the waist in another of his exuberant hugs, which Sherlock returned, his eyes on Molly as she opened up the boot and struggled to lift something out.

Once Wills had let go of him, Sherlock nodded at Molly. "Maybe we should help your mum with whatever she's doing?"

His son flashed his mother a guilty look. "Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, Mum!" he called as he dashed over to the car.

"It's all right, it was just stuck," Molly said when Sherlock asked if he could help. He peered down and saw that she'd brought not only a lovely bouquet of flowers that he knew his mother would love, but what appeared to be a packet of her mother's lemon bars and a box holding several photo albums. "Baby pictures," she said by way of (unneeded) explanation while Wills groaned and rolled his eyes. "None of that, young man; your father and his family might want to see what a fat little sprout you were!"

"Hmm, then he seems to have taken after his Uncle Mycroft," Sherlock said, eliciting a grin from Molly and another groan from Wills. Who, in spite of his grumbles, was now holding the box while Sherlock freed Molly from the burden of the lemon bars and flowers so she could close the boot. "Right then, time to meet my side of the family. I warn you, Wills; your uncle is a snarky man at best, and my parents – your grandparents, and believe me, they'll want you to call them Nan and Papa or something along those lines, so be warned – will want to look at every one of those pictures, and hear every story your mother has to tell about when you were a baby."

Wills rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath so hard that it blew his dark curls up from his forehead in a motion Sherlock had perfected by the same age. It brought a smile to his lips and helped ease some of the anxiety that was currently knotting his stomach. Yes, Mycroft was likely to be a bit of a bastard, but his parents would absolutely fall in love with Wills and Molly.

Just as, he suspected, he was already doing.


	9. Dinner with the Holmeses Pt 2

"And this is Sherlock when he was in his pirate phase."

Molly shot a look at the man in question, noting the slight pink tinge to his ears even as he scowled at his mother, seated next to Wills on the comfortable green sofa opposite the chairs he and Molly occupied. Violet Holmes took no note of his unhappy expression, beaming at him before returning her attention to the photo album she'd pulled out while Robert and Mycroft set the table. Mycroft, Molly had the feeling, had been drafted into doing so just to keep him busy – and away from her and Wills.

They'd already looked at the photos Molly had brought, which had inspired Mrs. Holmes – "Do call me Violet, dear" – to bring out albums of her own. Mycroft Holmes had rolled his eyes and muttered something about how tedious he found such things, Sherlock had scowled even though Molly had the distinct impression he agreed with his brother, and then Mr. Holmes – "Robert, please, Molly!" – had then dragged his eldest son off to help lay the table for dinner in spite of his protests.

Her son, who normally found paging through old photos the most boring thing on the planet, was enthralled at the sight of his father as a small boy. "He was six," Violet said as she held up the book to show Molly. She smiled as she caught Wills sneaking a glance at Sherlock, as if comparing his face with the photo of the widely grinning youngster wearing a pirate hat and eye patch. The young Sherlock was also brandishing a plastic sword, and there was a gorgeous Irish Setter reclining at his feet, looking rather dashing with a pirate hat of his own perched on his head.

"That's Redbeard, Sherlock's dog," Violet said helpfully, and Molly could have sworn she saw Sherlock wince a bit, from the corner of her eye. But when she turned to look at him, he seemed as bored as ever. "Poor thing got cancer and had to be put down. Very sad."

Sherlock went very still, his expression shuttered, and Molly understood how close he'd been to his pet, close enough that the death still hurt even after all these years. Without thinking she laid a sympathetic hand on his knee. "We had to put down our cat, Beanie, when I was eight," she said softly.

Sherlock had stiffened further at her touch, and she pulled her hand back with an apologetic smile. Aside from Wills, he seemed to only barely tolerate anyone else's touch. "Sorry," she muttered, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "I just…"

"No," he said, abruptly turning his head to look at her while Wills and Violet chattered on companionably. "It's…it's all right." His lips curled up in a small smile, and Molly relaxed again.

It was strange, feeling so awkward around Sherlock – not because he was still a virtual stranger to her, but because she had to keep fighting the urge to touch him, to treat him as if he were someone she'd known all her life. It was awkward because she felt so comfortable with him, and there was no earthly reason why she should! Every time she found herself doing something like she'd just done – touching his knee, teasing him, even wanting to kiss him – some inner voice scolded her for not being more on her guard with him. Another part of her insisted that it was fine for her to relax around him – it wasn't as if he'd broken her heart all those years ago. She'd been the one to leave him, to rush out of the room where their tryst had taken place as if her hair was on fire!

She was about to say something, anything to break the silence that had fallen between herself and Sherlock when his father and brother came back into the room. "Any other menial chores you have for me to do, Mother?" Mycroft asked, eyebrow raised in a supercilious manner as he took in the domestic sight before him. "Scrub the floors, dust the high shelves?"

"Stuff it, Mycroft," Sherlock said, just as his mother scolded, "Honestly, is this how you act in front of company?"

Mycroft, if anything, looked even more affronted than his mother. "My nephew is hardly company, he's family," he said. Before his mother could do more than look pleased at this acknowledgement of kinship, he promptly spoiled the moment by adding, "Oh, of course, you were talking about his mother. My apologies." And he gave Molly a bland smile that spoke volumes about his feelings toward her.

Violet Holmes, it would appear, was having none of that. Before Molly could say anything, before Sherlock could do more than jump to his feet and open his mouth, Mrs. Holmes had marched across the room so that she was standing directly in front of Mycroft. "Mycroft David Holmes!" she exclaimed, cheeks red with anger. "I know I raised you better than that!"

Molly had also stood up, and Wills was close to by her side, looking uncertainly from person to person. He might not have picked up on the nuances of Mycroft's deliberate insult, but he certainly couldn't miss the fact that a family fight was happening right in front of his eyes.

"Hmm, seems dinner is likely to be delayed," Robert said as his wife literally grabbed Mycroft by the tie and dragged him, protesting under his breath, into the kitchen. "Perhaps Molly and Wills would like to see the gardens?"

Sherlock hesitated, looking very much as if he would rather be in the kitchen with his mother, but nodded as his father gave him a sharp look. "Yes, the gardens," he said instead, gesturing towards the front door. "My mother is justifiably proud of them."

"Sounds lovely," Molly murmured. She grabbed Wills' hand and practically dragged him after her as she hurried to catch Sherlock up.

Instead of stopping to actually admire any of the truly beautiful plantings, however, Sherlock merely strode through the flower beds, making his way toward the low stone wall and the wooden gate leading out to a meadow bordered by a thick stand of trees. "Sherlock, wait, where are we going?" Molly called after him. Wills had let go her hand as soon as the door shut behind them but remained by her side, his expression troubled.

"Just to the trees, there's a creek that's usually crawling with turtles this time of year," Sherlock said over his shoulder. When he saw how far behind him the other two were, he stopped and waited for them to catch him up, then continued at a more leisurely pace. "Brought over here by an ancestor, for some reason they've managed to thrive…"

When Wills made no response other than a grunt, he pursed his lips before changing subjects to the one that was clearly bothering his son. "Er, Wills, what your uncle said back there…"

"He doesn't like Mum." Wills mouth was set in a grim line, and Molly recognized the storm brewing behind his brown eyes. "He said she's not family, she's company, and that means he doesn't like her."

"Wills," Molly said, stopping and gently taking his hand. He glowered at the ground before reluctantly meeting her eyes. She dropped to one knee to better meet his gaze. "Darling, you know what families are like; everyone doesn't always get on. You and Louisa fight all the time, and so do Aunt Grace and I." She took a deep breath before continuing. "And besides, Mycroft's right. I'm not family, not to him. Your Dad and I are just starting to get to know each other again after a long time apart; it's not like I'm his girlfriend or anything, yeah? You understand?"

Wills kicked sullenly at a clump of grass while Sherlock stood silently behind him. "Yeah," he finally said. "I guess. It was still rotten for him to say it that way, though."

"Yeah, it was," Molly agreed. She tried never to lie or sugar-coat things when talking to her son, although of course she'd never told him the real details of her brief relationship with his father the night he was conceived. "But we're still new to him, and I suppose he doesn't expect to have to deal with me very much." She tried a smile. "After all, once everyone gets to know each other, it's very likely your father will bring you here for visits without me."

Wills gave Sherlock a sideways glance. "I suppose so," he said, not sounding entirely convinced. Then he shrugged. "Can we go see the creek now? I really like turtles," he confessed, speaking to his father.

"Yes, they can be fascinating," Sherlock agreed. He smiled, although to Molly's eyes it seemed a bit forced, and reached out to ruffle Wills' dark curls. "It's just past that line of trees, the oaks about six hundred meters from here. See them?" Wills nodded, and Sherlock gave his shoulders a gentle push. "See how quickly you can get there, I'll time you."

With a glance back at his mother for permission, Wills immediately took off, his long legs pumping furiously as he bounded across the meadow.

Molly and Sherlock followed the same path, sharing smiles at his exuberance. "He really does like turtles, he wasn't just saying that," Molly said after a moment's silence. "He's been begging me to let him keep one for ages. I told him not until we buy a house and don't have to deal with landlords."

"My brother's an arse." Sherlock's words startled Molly; she'd not expected the topic of Mycroft's rudeness to be brought up once she'd settled things with Wills.

"Well, he doesn't know me," she reasoned, trying to be fair-minded even though she was justifiably annoyed at her son's uncle. Violet was handling it and Molly fully intended to let it go. After all, she reminded herself, she'd already decided that he could be as rude to her as he liked as long as he was good to Wills.

"No, nor does he want to. He's just as rude to John, but that's what happens when you think about other people as so many goldfish."

"Oh, that's such a sad way to be!" Molly exclaimed, earning a puzzled look from Sherlock. "To be so isolated, so lonely," she tried to explain.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose it is," he mused. "Although I doubt very much he'd agree with you. He doesn't think caring is an advantage," he added, and Molly shook her head and sighed.

"Well, I suppose I won't take it personally then, if he's that way with other people. Are his friends like that, do they feel that way?"

Sherlock snorted. "Friends? My brother doesn't have friends, Molly. He has family and work colleagues and that PA of his who always has her nose stuck in her Blackberry. He's far too busy for anything as boring and mundane as 'friends'."

"What does he do?"

"He works for – no, he IS – the British government," Sherlock replied. Molly had no idea what he meant, but let it go. The two of them had reached the trees and could hear Wills delighted shouts over the gentle tinkling of the rivulet a few meters ahead.

"What about you?" Molly asked. It was something she'd wondered but hadn't broached with Sherlock; it seemed too personal, nothing to do with him being Wills' father, but she was genuinely curious. She put Mycroft out of her mind as she glanced up at the younger Holmes brother. The one she would dearly like to get to know better. Much, much better.

"What about me?" Sherlock repeated, a crinkle of confusion manifesting between his eyes.

"Friends, what about your friends?" she asked. "You talk about John and Inspector Lestrade, but what about your other friends?"

"I don't have any," he said simply, and Molly felt her heart breaking a bit. How could anyone live like that, with only a few friends and a brother that wasn't exactly the sentimental type? Then she thought about how lovely Violet and Robert Holmes were, how fondly Sherlock spoke of his landlady, Mrs. Hudson – who, it would appear, was as eager to meet Wills as Sherlock's own parents had been! – and realized that it might be a small circle of friends and family, but it was a close one. Actually, if she thought about, they weren't that different, she and Sherlock; she had Grace and her mum and Grace's family, she had her best friend Meena and a few other women from uni she'd kept in touch with and met up with for drinks once in a while, but she was hardly the most sociable person on the planet. "It's all good," she murmured, half to herself, but of course Sherlock heard her. Heard her, and picked up on the nuances with that uncanny ability of his to zoom in on the tiniest details and correctly deduce things from them.

"Yes, it is," he said. "I used to think that alone protected me, kept me safe, but then John Watson came into my life, and now you and Wills and I'm finally beginning to understand that sentiment isn't actually a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Well, you're right, now you have Wills. And me, you can have me if you want me… Oh!" she exclaimed, fluttering her fingers over her lips, flustered by her verbal faux pas. "Sorry! I didn't mean…what I meant was…"

Sherlock, far from being offended, appeared amused; he was chuckling as he peered down at her. "No, it's fine, I understand what you meant." He stepped closer, pinning her with his gaze as he reached out and brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. "Just remember, you can have me if you want me as well." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Molly gaped up at him, spellbound. He lowered his head, she laid her hand on his chest, and just as their lips were about to meet…Wills shouted for them.

They startled apart, blinking as the spell was broken, both swiveling their heads to see what their son wanted. He was standing on the banks of the creek, hands raised over his head, holding a rather large turtle in both hands. "Look! I found one, Dad! Isn't it brilliant?"

Dad. It was the first time he'd called Sherlock that, rather than by his name as they'd agreed to do. Molly heard Sherlock's breath catch, and watched as he blinked rapidly, as if trying to process what he'd just heard. He started to speak, stopped, cleared his throat, then tried again. "That's…yes, that's fantastic, let's take a look, shall we?" With a single backwards glance at Molly, he walked over to check out the turtle.

Molly, for her part, simply stood there, trying to wrap her brain around the fact that Sherlock Holmes had almost kissed her – and she'd been more than willing to let him.


	10. Dinner with the Holmeses Pt 3

Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking, that was the problem, or at least not with his brain. How many times had he berated John Watson for thinking with his dick, and here he was doing the exact same thing? Just because he could bring up every memory of that night in excruciating detail; just because Molly was turning out to be more than simply a long-ago one-night stand and the mother of his child, didn't mean that he should want anything more from her than that. Certainly not sex; he'd given up on that aspect of his life at the same time he'd given up drugs, when he'd barely graduated college because of such distractions.

Of course, it would hardly be more of a distraction than sudden fatherhood, would it, if he were to ask Molly out on a…to have chips with him sometime? There was that chip shop, the one where he'd helped the owner put up some shelves (literally, no 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' about it!) a few years back and who, in gratitude, always gave Sherlock extra portions. Or Angelo; he'd be beside himself if Sherlock brought someone round for dinner at his restaurant. He'd been devastated when he learned that Sherlock and John were just friends and flatmates, although he'd gotten over it cheerfully enough once John started bringing his own dates there for dinner (if the relationship lasted more than a few weeks, of course, which so few of them did). Like that nurse he was seeing now, Mary something-or-other, the blonde with the sharp sense of humor. Seeing how well she and John got on, being reminded this very night by his parents of how long-lasting and satisfying a marriage could be, made him wonder…

"No!"

Sherlock realized that everyone was staring at him – his parents, Mycroft (with a sneer on his lips, which had only been absent during his half-hearted apology to Molly for his earlier rudeness), Wills…Molly. He'd stood up and practically shouted the word aloud, so lost in his thoughts that he'd forgotten he wasn't back at Baker Street, with only John to disturb. Blinking rapidly, he slunk back into his seat. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just going over a case in my mind, got distracted, realized I'd been chasing after a cold lead."

He darted a glance at Molly, whose expression had turned neutral, then to Wills, who was – grinning? Yes, definitely grinning, nearly a smirk as he turned to his mother and said, "See? I'm not the only one, Mum! Dad does it too, just kind of blurts things out when he's thinking too hard!"

'Dad.' He'd called him Dad again, this time in front of his parents and Mycroft. His father cleared his throat in a suspicious manner, and was blinking as rapidly as Sherlock had just done, and his mother was openly sniffling and Mycroft wasn't scowling – he'd damned well better not be! – but his smile was pained, at best. Sherlock was so caught up in the whirlwind emotions of being called 'Dad' so unselfconsciously by Wills that he nearly missed what his son was actually saying. But when he did, he smiled and straightened back up in his chair; another point of commonality between them, another personality trait he'd somehow passed on in spite of the ten years they'd spent apart.

Although Molly gave him a few odd looks after that, the rest of the meal passed in relative peace. Sherlock remained sunk in his thoughts for most of it, making sure not to delve too deeply into his mind palace to miss anything Wills said – or Molly. Mycroft he did his best to ignore, not difficult since he said hardly two words through the meal, mostly along the lines of "please pass the butter". He'd apparently taken his mother's scolding to heart, and was finally practicing the 'if you can't say anything nice, say nothing' creed she was so dedicated to.

Teas and coffees were drunk in the sitting room, more family stories were exchanged, Mycroft kept surreptitiously glancing at his mobile as if desperate for some international crisis to spare him further domesticity – and Sherlock realized with a start that he hadn't so much as looked at his own watch, not even once. A break from habit his parents refrained from commenting on, but was sure to be obliquely mentioned to him by his brother at some future point. No doubt as commentary on how inappropriate and distracting his interest in Molly Hooper was.

Ah well, maybe one day Mycroft would finally understand that other people weren't actually goldfish, and that some relationships were worth pursuing.

He froze again, thankfully while everyone else was distracted by Wills' enthusiastic reenactment of some football moves he'd seen on the telly. Why did his mind insist on viewing Molly as someone other than the mother of his child? What was wrong with him? Was it perhaps some primitive association, deep in the reptile part of his brain, instinct attempting to override intellect?

Or, a voice in his mind that sound like a peevish John Watson pointed out, was it simply that the great Sherlock Holmes actually liked her and wanted to get to know her better?

Points to ponder, but not now. Not when Wills was laughing and his mother was rolling her eyes but grinning; not when his parents were obviously as much in love with his son as he was. Even Mycroft had a grudging look of interest on his face as Wills showed off his deductive reasoning by explaining how he'd analyzed the players' moves and predicted (correctly, Molly confirmed) the outcome of the match less than ten minutes into the first…match? half? Whatever. Unimportant; only the parts that pertained to his son mattered (although Sherlock suspected that he would have to start retaining football information since his son was clearly so passionate about it; he made a mental note to quiz John on the subject when he got home).

Around nine o'clock Molly made noises about getting back to London, much to Wills (very vocal) disappointment. She shushed him with a pointed look; he fell silent but jutted his lower lip out in a pout that Sherlock knew looked very much like his own expression when in a strop. He cleared his throat, catching everyone's attention, and before he could talk himself out of it, said, "If you don't mind, Molly, could I catch a ride back with you? I was going to spend the night since my father was so kind as to drive me here, but I've just remembered that I'm supposed to go over a case with Lestrade first thing in the morning and I'd rather not roust my parents out of bed at the crack of dawn if I don't have to."

He ignored Mycroft's smirk and raised eyebrow, just fixed his gaze on Molly and…hoped. A very un-Sherlockian reaction, John would joke, but true. It wasn't planned, but he was reluctant to let the evening end so soon. A ride home would give him a chance to spend more time with his son…and, of course, his son's mother.

After a quick glance at Wills' hopeful face, Molly smiled and nodded. "Of course, it's no trouble at all."

Ten minutes later they were in the car and headed Londonward, with Wills in the backseat chattering excitedly, Molly driving, and Sherlock wondering what the hell he should do next.


	11. Driving Mr Holmes

Molly wasn't flustered to have Sherlock in the car with her. Of course she wasn't; it was simply a convenience, them being able to drop him at his flat. And of course it meant he got to spend more time with Wills, which was the point of their reconnection, after all. The two of them were back on the turtle discussion (being a city girl she'd had no idea how rare turtles were on the British isles) and she was trying to concentrate on the dark motorway, but her mind insisted on reliving the almost-kiss at the creek. Well, she thought it was an almost-kiss, but what if she was wrong?

Such worrisome thoughts carried her for the next twenty minutes or so, until gradually Wills' questions and comments started coming further and further apart; when Sherlock finally twisted round so he was facing fully forward in his seat next to hers, she knew it was only because her over-stimulated son had drifted off to sleep in that easy way kids could manage and adults could only envy.

Of course, no longer having Wills to interact with meant Molly would actually have to find something to say to Sherlock, which suddenly seemed an impossible task. What could she say? What if he brought up That Moment? Or worse; what if she did and he didn't want to talk about it? Should they even talk about it?

"You're nervous, why are you nervous?"

She glanced over at him, wondering what made him ask; the question must have been obvious even in the split-second before she returned her attention to the road, because he elaborated: "You're clenching the wheel much more tightly than you were while Wills and I were talking, and you're nibbling at your lower lip. Chewing on it, more like. Your breathing sped up, and you've shifted in your seat four times. It's a bit dark to tell, but I'm confident that if it were daylight I'd see your complexion gone a shade or two paler than normal. Conclusion: you're nervous, when you weren't nervous before. Why?"

Molly let out a nervous titter, then clamped her mouth shut and tried to turn it into a careless laugh instead. The result was an unflattering snort with a bit of choke behind it, and she dearly wished she could just sink into the seat and disappear. Or better yet, go back in time and tell Sherlock she couldn't possibly give him a ride home, sorry, some other time perhaps. Well aware that he was waiting for her to give an actual response, she opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again – and blurted out the very last thing she meant to say. "Down by the creek, what was that?"

There was silence from the passenger seat; Molly stole another glance, but Sherlock's expression was impossible to read in the dark. She wished desperately for the ability to take back the words; it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him never mind, when he spoke. "I take it you don't mean the turtles my ecologically-minded ancestor imported from the American colonies sometime in my family's distant past?"

His dry tone brought a true snort of laughter from her lips and helped diffuse the tension somewhat. She relaxed her death-grip on the steering wheel and risked a third look over at him. He'd leaned closer to her, and she could see his features somewhat better in the light of the dashboard. The flashes of the occasional headlights from car driving the opposite direction made his eyes glitter, and she shivered, forcing her eyes back on the road, consciously having to remind herself that it wasn't just the two of them in the vehicle.

Remembering Wills' presence helped steady her; eyes straight ahead, she finally answered Sherlock's question. "No, not talking about turtles."

She heard him sigh, felt him withdrawing back to his own seat, heard the tap of his fingers drumming on…something. His thighs, maybe, or the handle of the door. "It was…a mistake."

Molly sucked in a breath, but before she could say anything, before she could do more than feel her heart give an unhappy lurch, he rushed on. "It's too soon for anything like that between us, isn't it? We've only just reconnected, to rush into anything just now would be foolish. Especially if it doesn't…you don't know me very well yet, Molly." There was something akin to desperation in his voice as he spoke. "You don't know how I can be; you should ask John, I'm moody and difficult and have been known to be cruel when I'm bored. My mind is like a racecar, always revving its engine, never slowing and I need stimulation or I feel like I might go mad. That's why the drugs…although I quickly learned they don't do the trick for very long. But it was…hard to stop once I started. Rehab twice and even now, when I'm bored or when I feel like my mind is about to burst out of my head, the urge is still there."

He fell silent as abruptly as he'd begun speaking, but Molly waited a few long seconds before responding. Just in case. "You're right, it's too soon," she said quietly, although it wasn't at all what she wanted to say. She wanted to say to hell with 'too soon' or going slow, but the third occupant of the car shifted and gave a soft snort in his sleep and her practical side overrode her romantic side. She had a ten-year-old son to think of, and if she and Sherlock fell back into bed or even went on a date and it went pear shaped, Wills was the one who'd be hurt the most. "We both…I think we both want something," she continued as Sherlock remained silent. "Don't we? Do we?"

"I…yes," he said. "I think we do. But you're right; we can't do anything that might spoil things for Wills. For our son."

"So if we do decide to, to see each other um, socially," Molly started, then hesitated. She risked a glance at Sherlock, to find that he was tapping his fingers on his knees and staring down at the movements as if fascinated by them. "If we wanted to…to date or something, it wouldn't be right away."

"No, of course not," Sherlock agreed quickly, but Molly could have sworn there was a flash of something like disappointment in his eyes, briefly revealed by the oncoming headlights of a car driving in the opposite direction to them. "But if we did decide to do anything like that, just remember: I don't have a lot of, erm, experience. I mean sex, yes, of course, but not recently. But dating, relationships…never actually was very successful at that. Gave it up when I gave up drugs."

That was a heartbreaking confession to hear from a man in his thirties. "No one in your life since then at all?" she asked.

She glanced over again, saw his silhouette briefly as he turned toward his window. "Nope." He popped the p but it didn't cover the flat finality of the word.

"I only had one serious boyfriend," Molly found herself confessing. "The one I broke up with right before we…before you and I…" She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "And after Wills,, well you know I never dated once he came along. So we're rather in the same boat, aren't we? Not a lot of experience with all…this."

"No, I suppose not – here, take the next exit, it'll get us into London quicker," he instructed. "Closer to Baker Street."

Molly did as he…well, 'asked' wasn't the right word, since it was more like a command, but she took the next exit, trusting his directions even though she'd programmed their destination into her satnav. When the computer voice didn't chime in, she realized Sherlock must have turned it off at some point. Seeing no point in scolding him about it, she kept silent, but heard him give a chuckle at her slightly exasperated huff of breath.

The conversation remained impersonal from then on, until she came to a stop in front of the building housing his flat. "221B Baker Street," she said lightly, deciding to risk a joke. "That'll be £15, and don't forget to tip the driver!"

Oh, she wasn't imagining the wince he gave as he undid his seatbelt. "Molly, don't make jokes; Wills said you were terrible at them and I see he wasn't exaggerating."

"Yes, well, seeing that he gets his lack of a sense of humor from you, I'm not surprised," she snarked, startling another chuckle out of him. "Should I wake him so you can say good-bye?"

Sherlock glanced into the backseat, where Wills was huddled over the central armrest, then shook his head. "No, let him sleep. Tell him I'll text him tomorrow." Then he turned to face her, smiling at her. "Thanks for the lift, and the conversation. It was…exactly what we needed to tell each other."

"Yeah, it was," Molly agreed, looking back at him. "It's the smart thing, not rushing into any kind of a…"

She never finished the sentence because suddenly she and Sherlock had lunged across the central console, his hands cradling the sides of her face as their lips crashed together. The fury of the kiss took her by surprise, but only for the split second it took for her brain to entirely shut down as she lost herself in the pleasure of finally kissing him again. Ten years might have passed but she would later swear it felt exactly the same; the way he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, the way his tongue slid along hers, the feel of his hands on her face, his fingers threading her hair, everything exactly the same.

Well, not exactly the same; no smell or taste of marijuana, no alcohol fuzzing her brain, everything in sharp, glorious relief as her eyes fluttered closed and she groped for his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.

A sound from the backseat snapped them out of the spell under which they'd fallen; Wills mumbling something in his sleep, bringing them back to reality. Molly's breathing was uneven as she pulled her hands and face away from Sherlock's body, but she was rather pleased to note that his wasn't any too steady, either. "Um, I think you should" she started to say, just as Sherlock blurted out, "I should go, you need to get Wills home to his own bed."

"Yeah," Molly replied, nodding nervously. She watched as Sherlock left, neither of them saying another word as he carefully shut the door and crossed the small stretch of pavement to his front door. He paused on the doorstep, turned back as if to say something – or wave, maybe? – but turned back almost immediately and unlocked the door. He disappeared inside without looking back, and Molly drove off, her mind reeling as she wondered how they would handle their next meeting.


	12. Baker Street Pt 1: A Touch of Drama

That next meeting, as it turned out, would be put off for nearly a week while Sherlock and John Watson (whom she'd had yet to meet) were out of the country on a case. She heard from Sherlock exactly twice during that time: once to apologize for leaving so abruptly, and once to assure her that the bullet (!) had only grazed his arm and that John had taken care of it.

At least he was a bit better at keeping in touch with Wills, texting him at least once a day with interesting but relatively harmless matters regarding the case (nothing about being shot at, thank God) and turtles and the elder Holmeses and…beekeeping?

At any rate, Molly was reassured after insisting that Wills show her the messages from his father that Sherlock hadn't said anything disturbing or inappropriate to their son. She wasn't sure how she felt knowing that Sherlock had been shot, even if he wasn't seriously injured; the true nature of his chosen (created) career hadn't really hit her until then.

When he did phone to tell her he was back in London, it was to invite her and Wills to dinner at his flat, to meet his friend John Watson, and their landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

Wills was practically bouncing with excitement as they arrived at his father's flat, and Molly had to rather sternly remind him that he was NOT to touch anything without permission, nor was he to bound around like a puppy off its leash. "Your father does his work from there, William, he takes cases and meets clients. So you need to treat it as if you were visiting me at St. Barts, got it?"

He nodded vigorously, waiting twitchily by her side as she rang the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by smiling, seventy-ish woman with short hair and a smile that was as wide as Wills' at his most enthusiastic. "Oh, you must be Molly and Wills, I'm Mrs. Hudson, so very happy to meet you! Come in, come in, Sherlock's upstairs and John is just on his way back from the clinic, he should be here not too much longer."

She asked them about themselves and offered Wills his choice of biscuits after he'd said hello to his father, which made him even more enthusiastic than he already was. Molly resigned herself to an over-stimulated son who would forget everything she'd told him, and just hoped that Sherlock would make it clear if he was touching anything in the flat that he shouldn't be.

Wills bee-lined for his father, hugging him enthusiastically and launching immediately into a description of a rugby match he'd seen earlier in the day. Sherlock appeared enraptured by his son's story, but Molly could see the stiff way he held his left arm and the pain he tried to keep out of his expression when Wills tugged on his hand in order to drag him over to the mantel. There was a skull sat on one end and it was clearly that which had caught his attention. "Is that real? It looks real, Mum, look! I think it's a real skull!"

"It is, and his name is Billy, a very good friend of mine, that skull," Sherlock replied, even as Mrs. Hudson clucked her disapproval. "Oh, come now, Hudders, the boy has me as a father and a Specialist Registrar who works in a morgue as a mother, surely you don't think he's going to be put off by a bit of defleshed bone, do you?"

"Wills has been begging me to allow him to watch an autopsy sometime," Molly admitted when Mrs. Hudson turned to her for support. She gave a half-shrug and smiled awkwardly. "Sorry!"

Sherlock's landlady pursed her lips, then unexpectedly bestowed a radiant smile on Molly before turning back to her tenant. "Sherlock Holmes, I swear, if you let this lovely woman get away again, I'll personally see to it that you regret it!"

Molly blushed and ducked her head, then nodded permission when Mrs. Hudson asked if Wills could help her get the roast out of the oven - a blatant attempt to leave Sherlock and Molly alone for a few minutes, even as she patted the dodgy hip she was using as an excuse. It took the promise of a couple of chocolate biscuits to dislodge Wills from his father's side, but he very politely offered to help Mrs. Hudson with the tricky bits, and they headed down the stairs, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone together.

"So, um, that's Mrs. Hudson," she said, even as she mentally berated herself for stating the obvious.

"Don't mind her, she gets a bit over-excited," Sherlock said dismissively as he carefully replaced the skull - Billy, had he called it? – back on the mantel.

He seemed a bit distant, Molly noted with a flash of disappointment that she did her best to ignore. After all, hadn't they both agreed that they should take things slow...right before snogging the hell out of each other while Wills slept on in blissful ignorance? So that was all that was happening; Sherlock was showing good sense and Molly needed to follow his lead.

That resolve lasted about five seconds after he turned to look at her; his expression was carefully neutral but there was something about his eyes that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She took a step forward, her lips parted as she groped after something to say – and then he was right there in front of her, pulling her close, one hand tangling itself in her hair and the other wrapped around her waist as his mouth covered hers in a hungry kiss.

She kissed him back just as hungrily, her hands pressed to his broad chest, everything else forgotten but the feel of his lips on hers. His tongue slid into her mouth and she accepted it greedily, moaning a bit as he pulled her more firmly against his body. Just as he lowered his hand from her waist to the curve of her bum, the sound of a slamming door brought them back to reality. Molly pulled away from him with a gasp, staring wide-eyed and wondering if her pupils were as blown back as his were. The blue-green of his irises was a mere ring accentuating the central darkness, and his lips were red, wet and decidedly kiss-swollen.

"John's here," Sherlock said, a bit hoarsely, and Molly nodded, fussing with her hair and her clothes, making sure her blouse wasn't askew and that her skirt wasn't wrinkled. For his part, Sherlock straightened his jacket and ruffled his hair a bit, then moved to stand by the mantel while Molly inched her way over to the desk on the pretense of placing her handbag on the one clear spot it boasted.

As soon as the door was pushed open she offered up a bright smile to Sherlock's friend. "Hi, I'm Molly, you must be John, so nice to finally meet you!" she exclaimed, moving forward with her hand extended.

He clasped it warmly in his and smiled just as brightly at her. "Yeah, John Watson, I promise I'm nowhere near as thick as he makes me out to be."

Sherlock harrumped – there really was no other way to describe it – and crossed his arms. "Yes, well, now you two have met so you can stop nagging me, John." Without taking a breath he turned to Molly and continued, "He's worse than Mrs. Hudson sometimes, always after me to eat and sleep and introduce him to my gir...to, uh, you and Wills." His cheeks flushed a bit at the verbal faux pas, and Molly felt her own cheeks heating up.

John, on the other merely looked from one to the other with a huge smirk on his lips, his blue eyes flashing with glee. With a raised eyebrow, he deliberately turned to Sherlock. "Anything you want to tell me, mate?"

"Not remotely," Sherlock snapped, turning away quickly.

With a quick glance at Molly, John sidled up to Sherlock and stage-whispered, "You might want to wipe away the lipstick before Mrs. Hudson comes back upstairs."

His smirk was positively devilish as Sherlock automatically raised one hand to his mouth. Said mouth turned down in a scowl as he darted his gaze over at Molly...whom he belatedly realized wasn't wearing any lipstick. And who appeared to be attempting to hold back...what expression exactly? Oh, a smile? She thought it was funny, that John was taking the piss with him? Unexpected; he'd have thought she'd be mortified by John's reaction.

"I'll just, um, go see how Wills and Mrs. Hudson are doing," she said quickly, hurrying down the stairs and leaving the two flatmates alone - but not before Sherlock heard a muffled giggle escape her lips. Something to ponder...after he'd dealt with his idiotic flatmate.

Once she was gone, John's playful demeanor transformed into something far more serious. "Sherlock, I know you said you wanted to get to know Molly better, but I didn't realize you wanted to take up where you two left off! D'you think that's a good idea, considering?" He gestured at the framed photo of Wills that now held pride of place on the cluttered surface of the desk. "You two have only reconnected recently and you're already snogging her? In your flat? While your son is downstairs with Mrs. Hudson?"

"Would you rather I was snogging her while they were both up here? Give me some credit, John," Sherlock said, knowing even as the words left his mouth that it wasn't what his friend meant.

"Not what I meant," John said sternly. Right on cue. "And you bloody well know it. So what, exactly, are your intentions?"

"Good God, John, you're not her father!" Sherlock turned away sharply, his fingers beating a nervous tattoo on Billy's os frontale. He raked the fingers of his other hand through his hair, further disordering it. "We're both consenting adults. Whatever we decide to do in our private lives is frankly no one else's business. I don't see what you're complaining about," he added crossly. "I'm doing exactly what you said I should do, getting to know my son and his mother better."

"Get to know them, yes. Manipulate the poor woman just so you can be sure she'll let you have a relationship with Wills, no," John said sternly.

Sherlock's eyes glittered angrily. "Is that really what you think I'm doing? That I'm capable of doing something like that to the mother of my child?"

"Janine Hawkins," John said simply, and Sherlock deflated a bit.

"That was for a case," he mumbled.

"You should count yourself lucky that woman didn't plaster your photos all over the tabloids like she threatened to when she found out you were faking the relationship just to get into her bosses' office," John said.

"I'm not using Molly to try to get closer to my son, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock snapped.

John raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I never said you were, mate. I just…I know how genuinely excited you were when you found out you had a son, but for God's sake, what happened to taking things slow with Molly? To getting to know one another? Do you even know anything about her? And don't," he added quickly, "rattle off a list of things you've deduced about her. That's not what I'm asking and you know it."

Sherlock looked down his nose at his best friend, reminding said best friend very much of the oldest Holmes brother. "I," Sherlock announced dramatically, "don't need to justify myself to you or to anyone else. Except Molly. And Wills. That's it."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the flat, leaving John scratching his head and silently praying that Sherlock wasn't rushing into something he wasn't ready for.


	13. Baker Street Pt 2: A Touch of Humor

_Previously: "I'm not using Molly to try to get closer to my son, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock snapped._

_John raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I never said you were, mate. I just…I know how genuinely excited you were when you found out you had a son, but for God's sake, what happened to taking things slow with Molly? To getting to know one another? Do you even know anything about her? And don't," he added quickly, "rattle off a list of things you've deduced about her. That's not what I'm asking and you know it."_

_Sherlock looked down his nose at his best friend, reminding said best friend very much of the oldest Holmes brother. "I," Sherlock announced dramatically, "don't need to justify myself to you or to anyone else. Except Molly. And Wills. That's it."_

_He turned on his heel and marched out of the flat, leaving John scratching his head and silently praying that Sherlock wasn't rushing into something he wasn't ready for._

* * *

Dinner went very well, all things considered. Wills ate like a starving hyena, which led John to joke about how he clearly hadn't inherited his father's eating habits. Mrs. Hudson simply beamed approvingly at every bite the boy took, while Molly did her best to remind him that he was, in fact, a human being and not _actually _a wild animal.

Afterwards they returned to the sitting room for coffee and dessert, an absolutely smashing apple crumble that Mrs. Hudson had baked and which everyone praised. John was in his chair, Mrs. Hudson was in Sherlock's, and Sherlock was sat on the sofa with Molly on one side and Wills on the other. All in all a cozy domestic picture, as Sherlock somewhat grumpily commented, that was a bit foreign in the flat.

"Oh, well, if we're disturbing your aesthetic, we can always just…" Molly gestured toward the door and made as if to rise, a teasing smile on her face.

Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, unceremoniously hauling her back down. "No, it's fine," he said, darting a look at John that practically dared him to comment.

"We could do with a bit of domestic tranquility around here," was all he did say, in a mild tone utterly belied by the sparkle of his eyes. "Course, having a ten-year-old tearing about won't exactly be the definition of tranquility - still, it'll make a change from the usual ten-year-old I have to deal with!" He tilted his head toward Sherlock in an exaggerated motion, and Wills and Molly both giggled. Mrs. Hudson's smile was positively brilliant, Sherlock sulked a bit, but allowed himself to be pulled back into a good humor by Wills' questions about Billy the skull and how exactly he'd been, as the boy put it, "taken off his body".

Molly was quick to put the kibosh on that particular topic, and they were just getting into a bit of a debate about why there were no turtles in the UK when the door buzzer rang. When Sherlock seemed determined to ignore it, John got to his feet with a sigh. "I'll get it then, shall I?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock said dismissively. "It's no one I want to talk to tonight."

"Is it a client?" Wills asked, eyes lighting up with excitement as John disappeared down the stairs. "Is it for a case?"

"For a case, very likely," Sherlock replied with a sigh. "A client, no. Just an impatient Detective Inspector, I recognize his style of buzzer-jabbing. Lestrade will just have to wait till tomorrow to utilize my expertise." Wills' face dropped in disappointment as his father continued speaking. "If John had half a brain, he'd have already told him that. However, judging by the fact that there are two sets of footsteps clomping up the stairs, he hasn't. Sorry," he added, looking at Molly. "I definitely told him no cases tonight."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell him why," John said as he reentered the sitting room. He glowered at Sherlock. "Nice of you to tell him about your son. Oh, wait, you didn't."

The man who followed him into the flat was in his late 40s, with a head of silvering brown hair cut short and an attractive smile, which he flashed at everyone as he came to a stop by John's side.

"Sorry for the home invasion, folks, but since idiot features here -" he nodded at Sherlock, who sighed and rolled his eyes "- didn't tell me _why _he was unavailable, well, here I am."

"Hi, I'm Wills, this is my mum Molly and are you really a police detective? Do you have a badge or a gun? Can I see?" He was perched on the edge of the sofa, the eager questions spilling from his lips before Molly could stop him.

DI Lestrade's smile had faltered a bit at the sight of Sherlock's son, and Molly knew it was because of the strong resemblance between the two. Everyone reacted that way at first, especially when taken unawares as he had been. "Wills, don't be rude," she said reprovingly as she rose to her feet and stretched out her hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Detective Inspector."

"Call me Greg," he said with a return of the dazzling smile. "Sorry for the gawking, it's just he, well, you know." He gave an awkward laugh.

"Looks so much like his dad, yes," Molly agreed with a smile.

"Sorry, you must be sick of hearing that by now."

"Yes, she most certainly is," Sherlock cut in impatiently. "Now that you've seen with your own eyes the evidence that I've successfully reproduced, do feel free to leave. I'll take a look at whatever case it is you need my help with tomorrow."

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Hudson," the DI said, ignoring Sherlock and giving the older woman a friendly nod. She smiled and nodded back at him before offering him a cup of coffee. "Ta, I could use one," he said, running a hand through his hair. He nodded his thanks to John when he pulled one of the kitchen chairs into the sitting room, ignoring Sherlock's growing scowl as he sat down.

If Molly didn't know any better, she'd have thought Sherlock actually disliked the man. But by the way John and Mrs. Hudson were acting, this was just the way he always behaved. Certainly Greg seemed perfectly comfortable as he asked about the landlady's hip and praised her coffee making skills.

Once it was clear the detective inspector had no intention of leaving, Sherlock appeared to resign himself to the inevitable. Although he folded his arms over his chest and glowered while Lestrade drank his coffee, Molly caught a glimpse of what looked like a proud smile as Wills plied Lestrade with questions, all of which the older man willingly answered.

However, she also knew what the occasional glances he shot her way meant; he was curious to know about her relationship with Sherlock. Well, so was she, truth be told, especially after the kisses they seemed to keep trading. She was drawn to him despite her better intentions. God, her life had been so uncomplicated once upon a time; what she wouldn't give some days for it be like that again!

Then she looked over at her smiling son, caught another glimpse of Sherlock's answering smile, and knew she wouldn't trade her life for anything in the world. Whatever might or might not happen between her and her son's father was an unknown quantity, so she decided to just let it go and see where life took them. She needed to stop fretting about the future and just focus on the present; she was enjoying this evening, meeting so many people who clearly meant a lot to Sherlock, marveling at how comfortable she felt with them all.

It was so strange, not feeling like an outsider in such a small, obviously tight-knit group; strange, but nice. She laughed at something Greg said, laughed again at Sherlock's sour expression, drank her coffee and settled in for a thoroughly enjoyable rest of the evening.

Two hours later Wills was trying to hide his yawns. "All right, time to get home," Molly said, rising to her feet. She started to carry the empty coffee cups to the kitchen, only to be stopped by Mrs. Hudson, who insisted on taking care of it herself. So Molly coaxed Wills into his jacket and said her good-byes to Greg and John, who'd also risen to their feet. "It was lovely to meet everyone," Molly said sincerely. "Thank you so much for having us over."

"Do I get my own room here?"

Wills' question startled her; her eyes flew up to meet Sherlock's, who was standing behind their son. "Um, we really haven't talked about it yet," she started to say, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

"Of course you do, we'll sort it out by the end of the school term," he said firmly, never removing his gaze from Molly's. She smiled and nodded, seeing him relax a bit when she didn't take him to task for answering without consulting her. He was right, after all; even if they hadn't discussed it yet, of course Wills should have a room here. "And I'm certain my parents - your grandparents - are already busy converting my old bedroom into a place for you to sleep over."

"Awesome!" Wills turned and hugged his father, then did the same for John and Mrs. Hudson, hesitating only a second before offering Greg his hand. The DI shook it solemnly, but with a tickled expression on his face.

"Let me walk you to your car," Sherlock said, handing Molly her coat and pocketbook. "Do feel free to gossip about me behind my back," he called over his shoulder to the others as he headed for the stairs.

As soon as they reached the pavement, Wills realized he'd forgotten his iPod and dashed back up the stairs to retrieve it. While they waited for him, Molly and Sherlock made awkward small talk for about thirty seconds. Then he reached out and took her hand, she stepped closer, and suddenly they were kissing again.

They broke apart as soon as they heard Wills clattering back down the stairs. "We've got to stop doing this," Molly said in a low voice. "We're supposed to be taking things slow!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sorry, never really been my style."

"What's not your style?" Wills asked, looking up at each of his parents in innocent confusion.

Sherlock reached out and ruffled his hair. "Being patient," he replied.

"Me neither," Wills confessed. "It's not fair when people make you wait for stuff, even when they know you want it right away."

Molly avoided Sherlock's gaze, knowing he'd have a smirk on his lips. "Time to go, Wills," she said. "Tell your father good-night."

"Night, Dad!"

Molly watched as Wills hugged his father again, a warm feeling settling over her as Sherlock hugged him back. The warm feeling turned downright heated when she met Sherlock's gaze. He was looking at her as if she was the only water in a miles-wide desert.

She swallowed hard and turned her head, wondering how long it would be before the two of them gave into the inevitable and once again tumbled into bed together.

Because taking things slow? Obviously _not _going to happen.

* * *

_A/N: The usual apologies for this taking so long, and the usual thanks to all my patient readers and reviewers for sticking with me. _


	14. Whirlwind Romance

_A/N: Here be smut, folks. Definitely an M rating. Enjoy, and thank you for the lovely reviews you've left for this story!_

* * *

It happened the night Wills had his first sleepover at his grandparents' house. Molly and Sherlock drove in her car with their son chattering excitedly to them the entire time about all the things he and Sherlock's parents were going to do that weekend. Molly and his father would stay for dinner, then head back to London.

It had been three weeks since the dinner at Baker Street, three weeks during which Sherlock and Molly had spent zero time alone together - both a blessing and a curse, at least in Molly's opinion. During that time they'd behaved with complete circumspection, not so much as trading meaningful glances over Wills' head on the few occasions they met. But the growing heat between them was so palpable, the sexual tension so all-encompassing, that it was no surprise when things finally exploded into passion after they said their good-nights and left Wills to enjoy his weekend in the country.

They'd fully intended on driving back to London. At least, Molly had fully intended on driving back. But when the door to Sherlock's parent's house shut behind them; when they'd seated themselves in her car; when she'd turned to ask him...something she'd long since forgotten...the look in his eyes had stopped the words before she could do more than part her lips. They remained parted in an 'o' of surprise and he'd taken immediate advantage, closing the small gap between them and kissing her like a man starved for the oxygen in her lungs.

Waiting the length of the drive to London seemed impossible after that. Instead they drove to a small inn about twenty minutes away. Once there they barely made it to their room before he had her pressed up against the door, the two of them trading fierce, needy kisses as they fumbled the clothing from each other's bodies. From there it was only a few steps to reach the king-sized bed, but it seemed an impossibly far distance when Sherlock has his hands on her breasts, his knee between her legs, and his mouth sucking hard at the base of her throat.

They were both breathing hard when they finally fell atop the bland beige duvet, Sherlock's naked body a welcome weight atop hers. Whether it was sense-memory or just pure lust-fueled need, he felt so comfortable, so right, that she almost didn't want to move for fear of breaking the spell. Then she saw Sherlock's eyes with the pupils blown so far back that the irises were mere slivers of blue-green around the edges, and felt his heart pounding against her chest, and the spell was broken in the best way possible as their lips crashed together for another searing kiss.

When the kiss ended Molly and Sherlock were rutting together like otters in a mating frenzy, her hands tangled in his curls, his cupping her behind and holding her as close to his body as he could manage without actually being inside her. Which was where she most definitely wanted him to be, but first she wanted to taste him, every inch of him, and started with another kiss. She quickly moved from his mouth to his neck, taking the time to suck a nice red mark under his ear to match the one he'd already given her.

He resisted at first when she tried to move him, but once she was able to make him understand that it was for a specific reason, he became very cooperative. Spectacularly so once she began kissing her way down his torso. However, he grabbed her leg as she started to swing her body around, and she gasped a bit as she realized he wanted her to crouch over him rather than kneeling between his legs. Face flaming with lust and uncertainty - she'd never had a boy go down on her back in the day, and she'd certainly never tried that particular position before! - she did as he silently directed, until her calves were tucked under his arms and her knees pressed to the mattress on either side of his torso. This put her mouth directly above where she most wanted it to be, and she wasted no time in lowering her head so that she could suck the head of his prick between her lips.

She felt his hands gripping her thighs as she continued to bob and suck on his lovely cock, but nearly fell on her side as she felt his mouth on her sex. "Oh my God," she mumbled around him, shuddering at the sensation. She had nothing to compare it to, but Sherlock's technique certainly seemed more than adequate. "Bloody brilliant," she mumbled, this time popping his cock out of her mouth and turning to gape at him. "You're bloody brilliant, you know that?"

"Mmmm," he replied, or something along those lines. A hum that sent another excited shudder down her body, the vibrations nearly bringing her off right then and there. She turned her attention back to him, but quickly lost the ability to focus when sucking kisses turned to sharp thrusts of his tongue deep inside her. She moaned and laid her head on his thigh, breathing through her mouth as his tongue wandered upwards to flick against her clit.

It took all of about ten seconds for her to orgasm, moaning and squirming against his mouth as he gripped her hips. When she finished shuddering she actually did fall on her side, panting hard, one hand still curled around his erection, which hadn't flagged for even a second. She gave a slow upward stroke, thumbing the damp tip and feeling his body give a little shudder of its own. Then he pulled himself out of her grip, turning his body so they were face to face, pulling her in for a deep, satisfying kiss.

She'd never tasted herself before, but didn't have the brainpower to analyze whether she liked it or not. She did, however, very much like kissing Sherlock; she liked the way he nibbled at her bottom lip, the way he teased and caressed her tongue with his own, the way he held her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones, the way he made her feel like there was no one else he'd rather be kissing. She hoped he felt the same way, because it was the simple truth: there really was no one she'd rather kiss than him. She'd spent ten years dreaming about their single encounter, fantasizing about it, daydreaming a myriad of 'what ifs' about it...and nothing compared to the reality.

Speaking of the reality...his kisses had grown more urgent and his hands had begun to wander in delicious directions. He was stroking her bum now, then her hip, grazing her pubic mound with his fingertips, and finally urging her onto her back as he lowered his body over hers, his erection gliding across her opening in an unspoken question.

She answered by widening her legs, reaching between them to guide him to her opening. He pressed inside with no hesitation; she held onto a fistful of his hair, letting out soft gasps as he stretched and filled her. She brought both hands down to his shoulders, holding him tightly to her as he paused, his forehead on hers, their breaths mingling. When he started to move his body in a slow, easy rhythm, she turned her head to the side and kissed his cheek right below his eye. Feeling him pull back, she looked up and saw him gazing down at her, barely any color to be seen of his eyes but the expanded black of his pupils glittering in the room's dim lighting.

His breath was coming in gasping pants and soft groans, softened only by the series of urgent kisses they traded as Molly began to move with him. Clumsy at first they soon found their pace, matching each other thrust for thrust, bare skin slicked with sweat and the sweet burn between her legs soon giving way to the rising tide of a second orgasm. It washed over her unexpectedly, so quickly she cried out in surprise and pleasure, fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulders while he bit down on her neck, sucking hard as if her pleasure was cascading through him as well.

His release followed quickly after hers, her name breathed reverently in her ear as his body shook and she felt him pulsing between her legs. The hot moisture trickled down her legs as they pulled apart, but she ignored it in favor of keeping him close, of holding him to her while they fell into sleep, tangled in one another's arms.

She awoke at some point, thirsty and chilled where Sherlock wasn't holding her, but when she tried to get up his arms tightened around her and he nuzzled at her throat. "Stay," he mumbled.

"Thirsty," she said, giving him a quick kiss. He let her go with what felt like a great deal of reluctance, and she could feel his eyes on her as she crossed to the small en suite. She paused at the door, turning to give him a quick smile before entering and shutting the door behind her.

**oOo**

Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling and wishing desperately for a cigarette. He had no idea how Molly felt about smoking, but had the vague thought that asking her about it tonight wouldn't be the best timing. Of course, their falling into bed together only six weeks after reconnecting with one another was the epitome of bad timing, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. He only hoped she wouldn't, either, in the cold light of morning. Or was she even now staring at herself in the mirror, wondering what kind of mistake she'd just made?

He'd started to work himself into a panic when the bathroom door clicked open and she reentered the main room. She was still completely naked, drinking thirstily from a glass of water. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled somewhat self-consciously and held the glass up. "Want some?"

"Yes," he replied, never taking his eyes from hers as he stood up and crossed the room. He crowded against her, backing her up until she was stopped by the door; taking the glass from her hand, he gulped down the remaining water. Still keeping his eyes on hers he deliberately allowed the glass to fall to the carpeted floor, where it landed unbroken. She let out a small squeak of surprise, or possibly protest, which he silenced as he lowered his mouth over hers. She immediately molded her body against his, winding her arms around his neck as the kiss deepened. He wanted her again, just as desperately as he had earlier in the evening, and it was clear she wasn't about to tell him no. Too impatient even to take her back to bed, he instead pulled her down on top of him, still kissing hungrily, his hands occupied with her lovely little breasts, cupping them, fondling them, sliding his thumb over her nipples and loving how they hardened at his touch.

Speaking of hard...he groaned a bit as he felt her hand grasping his growing erection, pumping it before letting go and grinding her core against his as she kissed him. Having orgasmed only a few hours earlier, he knew he could make it last a lot longer this time, and looked forward to seeing if he could make her come for a third time.

Then she angled her chest so that her breasts were right in front of his face, and he lost himself in suckling and licking her nipples, squeezing the warm flesh in his hands. After a moment he let go with one hand and reached between her legs. He slid his fingers into her and found her already more than wet enough for penetration, and was male enough to feel a certain amount of pride in knowing how much she wanted him - and god did he want her just as badly!

As if reading his thoughts, she wiggled free of his fingers, drawing his hand away but only in order to place it back on her breast. She smiled, biting her lip in a very fetching manner, then reached down to grasp his erection. As she raised her body her breast pulled free of his mouth with a wet pop, but his protest was silenced by the feel of her lowering herself over him, taking him back inside her, and any attempt at thought was immediately silenced by how perfect she felt as he was fully enveloped by her wet warmth.

Her third orgasm was achieved minutes later as he dragged his thumb over her clit; she cried out and dropped heavily onto his body, breathing hard against his neck while he held her and laid kiss after kiss on the parts of her face he could reach. After a moment she recovered enough to return to motion, sliding up and down his well-lubricated cock with a very determined look in her eyes. He held tight to her hips as he matched her movements, mesmerized by the way her breasts bounced, by the sweat glistening between them, by the low moans issuing from her throat as she rode him to completion.

When he came he was much louder than the first time, embarrassingly vocal, but Molly didn't seem to hold it against him. They snuggled together for a few minutes before he reluctantly decided that she deserved to sleep in a real bed, and that a bit of a cleanup might not be a bad thing. He stroked her hair and returned the sleepy smile she gave him as she lifted her head. "Thirsty again," she said, her voice raspy, her lips kiss-swollen and her expression one of extreme satisfaction.

He groped for the glass, handed it to her then watched as she knelt up, then stood and took the few steps needed to reach the bathroom door. She paused, then glanced down at him with an impish grin. "Shower?"

He didn't need to be asked twice.


End file.
